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BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS 


17 TO 27 VaNDEWATER 5T 

V ^NewTo^K;. 


* Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, Issued Tri weekly. By subscription i$5() per annum. 

;^»d IHH6 by GeorgeMunro— Entered at the Post Offlce at New York at second class rates— Aug. 18. iH86. 













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LADIES! 


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Sale l>y all I.ieading’ Blry Grood.s l>ealei*s9 iu tlie 
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MUISTRO'S PrBLIOATIOiq'S. 


The Heiress of Hilldrop; 

OR, 

THE ROMANCE OF A YOUNG GIRL. 

By OHABLOTTE M. BBAEUE, 

Author^ of “ Dora Thome.'' 

Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 
PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 

PRICK 90 CKNTS. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage pro 
paid, on receipt of the price, 20 cents. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro's Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 8751. 17 to 27 Vande water Street, New Yoi-k. 


SEASIDE lIBBiRI (POCEET EDITIOS), EO. PIl. 

A CARDINAL SIN. 

A NOVBL 

BY HUGH CONWAY, 

Author op “ Called Back.” 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 

PRICK ao CEriTlS, 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage 
prepaid, on receipt of the price, 20 cents. Address 

GEORGE MUNBO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 5751. t7 to 27 Vnnde water Street, New York. 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE 

OR, 

THE MORALS OF MAY FAIR. 


A NOVEL. 


By MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS. 


Der Wahn ist kurz, die Reu’ ist lang. 

Schiller. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, ' 


17 TO 27 Vandewatbr Street. 


V 


T25 


MBS. ANNIE EDWAEDS^ WOEKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


NO. PRICK. 

644 A Girton Girl 20 

834 A Ballroom Repentance 20 

835 Vivian the Beauty 20 

836 A Point of Honor 20 

837 A Vagabond Heroine JO 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? 20 

839 Leah: A Woman of Fashion 20 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? . . . . . 10 

842 A Blue-Stocking 10 

843 Archie Lovell 20 

844 Susan Fielding 20 


845 Philip Earnscliffe; or, The Morals of May Fair . 20 

850 A Playwright’s Daughter 10 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE 


CHAPTER I. 

It was a cold, gusty evening. Although the middle of May, the 
wind, as it swept up from the sea, howled round the T^te ISToire 
rocks with more of the fierce melancholy of December than of that 
“ sweet sighing ” which should belong to the month of fiowers; and 
the rain beat in torrents against the gray old walls and narrow case- 
ments of the Manoir de Kersaint, as it loomed grimly through the 
gathering mists and dying twilight. The Manoir was situated in 
one of the wildest parts of Western Brittany, and was a gloomy- 
looking building at all times -even with the summer sun shining on 
its many-paned windows, scutcheoned door- ways, and high-pointed 
slate roofs; but doubly so, when, as was the case daring six months 
of the year, the storms of the Breton coast beat around it, with 
groans, and shrieks, and tremulous wailings, which, to the super- 
stitious peasantry of the district, might well seem like voices from 
the ghosts of shipwrecked mariners — many of whom every winter 
found a watery grave among the shoals and rocks of that cruel shore. 

The Manoir stood about a league from the nearest town, and with 
no hamlet or cottage in its immediate neighborhood. It was close 
to the sea — which, indeed, in stormy weather often dashed its foam 
against the windows on that side which faced the bay — while be- 
tween the house and the shore lay a garden, only exposed to the 
south, and sheltered even in winter from the rude north and north- 
western blasts. This garden was old-fashioned, stiff, and quaint; 
with a terrace overhanging the beach at the further end, flights of 
broken steps, an ancient sun-dial, and the remains of a fountain — 
all records of the palmy days of the chateau, and the stiff taste of a 
by-gone age — but pleasant in summer, when bright fiowers, tended 
by no unloving hands, decked its borders, and ripe peaches and 
grapes hung upon the warm southern wall. 

On this evening, however, the garden looked desolate in the fast- 
falling shadows, and the early fiowers lay crushed and soiled under 


6 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


the heavy rain. The court gates communicating with the road on 
the other side of the house were firmly closed for the night; the 
watch-dog lay silently sleeping in his kennel; and only through one 
of the lower windows the uncertain dickering of a wood-fire gave 
token of life, and the presence of human beings in this dreary hab- 
itation. 

But, however cheerless the scene without, within that room was 
light and warmth, and a little group, so happy in themselves, as 
scarcely even to bestow a thought upon the drifting torrents of rain 
upon the windows, or the wind that screamed and eddied in the 
immense old chimney. The room was itself a vast one, with a lofty 
painted ceiling, and floor of many-colored woods, arranged in ara- 
besque patterns. The faded furniture was of the style belonging to 
the reign of Louis Quinze, and conveyed an instant idea of former 
courtly days, and more ample means than were possessed by the 
present inhabitants of the Manoir. On the walls hung a goodly 
array of portraits — blooming, powdered, and wreathed with flowers; 
doubtless, some of them representing the fair chatelaines of Ker- 
saint, who had once reclined on those very high-backed chairs of 
cramoisi damask which now stood grimly ranged under their life- 
less effigies. The enormous chimney-piece was of white marble, 
sculptured over with innumerable bands of roses, and figures of 
love and graces, whose projecting heads occasionally caught a rosy 
glow from the capricious flickerings of the well-piled wood-fire. 
Before this fire was a little group of three persons, and their ap- 
pearance seemed to harmonize strangely with the old-world room 
they inhabited, although, at the same time, they gave it a warm and 
household aspect. It was, indeed, an “interior,” upon which an 
artist’s eyes might long have rested with delight, half lit up as it 
was by the ever-changing light from the hearth. 

At intervals, pale, fitful gleams bathed the figures, and the whole 
room, then, quickly dying away into the red glow of the embers, 
left the large salle alternately black and somber, or quivering for a 
few seconds in a soft half-shadow. Anon this wandering light 
would fall upon some projecting gilding of the picture-frames, cov- 
ered with medallions and crowns of carved wood, then on the mas- 
sive furniture, plated in brass and ebony, or the delicately cut corn- 
ices of the wainscoting; and then, as one brand fell extinguished and 
a new flame broke from a different side of the fire, objects visible 
before returned again into obscurity, and other bright points stood 
out from the darkness. Thus the eye could gradually trace every 
detail of the picture. First the painted ceiling, bedecked with azure 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


7 


and stars; then the heavy console, supported upon four huge silver 
tritons, now darkened and tarnished with age; lastly, the fringed 
hangings of crimson damask, at the extreme end of the room, 
which, covered with wavy reflections, seemed to advance and re- 
cede mysteriously in the undulating rays of the fire. 

In a large arm-chair, drawn toward the center of the fire-place, 
sat an elderly man of grave and noble exterior. He might, perhaps, 
have been about fifty; but study and an expression of habitual mel- 
ancholy, joined to delicate health, made him look some ye^rs older 
than he really was. His high, pale brow was perfectly bare at the 
temples, in which the blue veins were painfully visible, and around 
the eyes was that hollow rim which bespeaks the slow, sure progress 
of life’s decay. His tall figure was somewhat bent, and his white, 
thin hands hung with an attitude of weakness upon the arm of the 
chair. A rough deer-hound was at his feet; he was old and gray, 
but. still bore traces of the strength and beauty of his youth. His 
wiry coat of a deep brindle hue, his black eyes, long sharp muzzle 
and dark ears, still soft and silky, all bespoke his high race and 
pure blood. He had rested his head upon the invalid’s knee, and 
now stood gazing up in his face with a tender, melancholy expres- 
sion, as though he could read, in his brute love, the signs of suffer- 
ing so plainly written there; but when his master occasionally passed 
his hand over his shaggy neck, the creature’s eyes softened and di- 
lated with pleasure, and his long tail swept from side to side upon 
the hearth. At length, he gave a little bark of impatience, as the 
object of so much love still kept his face averted, while he looked 
down at a young figure on his other side, and only extended an un- 
thinking caress to the hound. 

“ Jealous, as usual, old Bell!” said a childish voice. “ Father, 
if you even look at me too long, that creature barks. ” And the 
speaker, leaving a low stool by the hearth, came and seated herself 
by her father’s feet, and held up her little fist in the old hound’s 
face. 

She was a young girl of scarcely sixteen, and a countenance of 
more perfect, and almost infantine sweetness, it would be difficult 
to conceive. It was just one of those faces so rarely met with, ex- 
cept in some picture by one of the old masters. Her hair, of a rich 
chestnut brown, hung in a flood of light upon her neck, and, form- 
ing a waving halo round her head, added to its pure Madonna-like 
character. She was very fair, with all the first blush of childhood 
upon her cheeks, and her small white h^nd shone like a lily upon 
Bell’s grizzly coat. Her eyes— of so deep a blue that in this light 


8 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


they seemed black — were fringed with the longest eyelashes; and 
clearly defined, dark eyebrows gave a character to the otherwise 
soft countenance. In person she was tall; and, though so young, 
there was already promise of the richest lines of contour in the 
graceful shoulders, and full and exquisitely proportioned bust. As 
it had never entered into her head, or that of her father, that she 
was approaching the age of womanhood, she was still dressed like a 
mere child, in a little muslin frock, without any ornament of lace 
or ruffle, and so short in the skirts as to allow a full view of her tiny 
feet in their well-worn house-slippers. 87ie had no melancholy ex- 
pression, like poor Bell, as she looked up into her father’s face; but 
continued laughing, and chattering, and playing with the dog, oc- 
casionally resting her head against her father’s knee, or stroking the 
thin hand which hung listlessly at his side. 

Another figure sat somewhat apart from the two principal ones; 
but still near enough to enjoy the warmth from the fire, and mix 
with perfect freedom in the conversation. This was Manon, Mar- 
guerite’s former nurse, and now their only attendant, who, with a 
respectful familiarity still to be found amongst servants in the re- 
mote part of France, always took her place near the evening hearth, 
gazing ever and anon at her master, then at his child; but with the 
eternal stocking forming under her busy fingers, and which ap- 
peared to require neither light nor thought to aid its progress. Ma- 
non was a woman of about five-and-forty, perhaps older, for hers 
was one of those faces which never look young, yet on which, after 
a certain time, years and years pass away and leave no further 
trace. She had the hard Celtic features peculiar to Brittany, and 
wore the usual costume of the peasants — the white linen head-dress, 
short dark petticoat, enormous apron, and bright handkerchief 
pinned across her bosom, over which hung a large silver crucifix. 

The conversation was carried on in good French, which Manon 
understood well, although Breton was her native tongue. Mar- 
guerite spoke with the perfectly pure accent of a born French child; 
but her father, although possessing a thorough knowledge of the 
language, still bore traces, in the pronunciation, of being an English- 
man. 

“ How delightful to think that summer has come,” said the girl, 
pausing in her play with Bello. “ Do you know, father, the haw- 
thorns are in full blossom on the warm side of the orchard, and the 
young linnets are hatched, and Bruno thinks I shall have some roses 
in a fortnight? What a pleasant summer we shall have, darling old 
father I— you will get so strong in the sunny open air; and, till you 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


9 


are well enough to walk, Manon and I will take you down in the 
garden-chair to the shore, and you can sit quietly and enjoy the 
fresh sea-breeze, while Bello and I run about on the sands, and 
keep watch over you.” 

She looked so hopeful and happy, that her father had no courage 
to tell her he saw small prospect of any summer weather making 
him strong again. His lips never could approach that cruel subject 
when talking to his child; although he had several times confided 
his forebodings about his state to the old servant. 

” Well, Marguerite, 1 hope this is not your idea of summer,” he 
answered, smiling; “ listen to the wind and rain as they drift against 
the window. Where will your early flowers be to morrow?” 

Only beaten down for a day, father; by Sunday they will be 
fresher than ever, and I shall make Manon the 'first bouquet she has 
had this spring to take to mass with her.” 

For Manon was, of course, a rigid Catholic, and, on fOte days and 
Sundays, thought nothing of the long, rough miles she had to walk 
to the nearest town to church. The rain or snow — indeed, nothing 
but the illness of her master — had ever kept her at home; and, in 
fine weather, Marguerite frequently accompanied her. Mr. St. 
John had reared her in his own simple faith, but utterly apart from 
all sectarian prejudice; and it gave the poor child such pleasure to 
go to the old cathedral with Manon, and see the pictures, the rich 
vestments of the priests, the acolytes swinging the incense, while 
the sun poured through the stained window over the altar; above 
all, to listen to the solemn peals of the organ, and the sonorous 
chanting of the priests, that her father was glad for her to have this 
one enjoyment; and, in time, the cathedral became to her childish 
fancy all imaginable beauty, grandeur, and sweet music combined. 
She had a passionate love for music herself, and Mr. St. John also 
thought it good for her to have the opportunity of gratifying it, and 
of hearing any other harmony than that of her own voice — although, 
to him, that was worth more than all the music on earth. 

“ And if Sunday is fine,” Marguerite continued, ” I may go with 
Manon, petit papa? — that is, if you are very well, -and quite sure 
you will not want me — ” 

“ And if we have no more rain between this and then, ” chimed in 
Manon. The roads are not in a state for your little feet, ma mie 
dame! When I went to church last Sunday, I had often to wade 
through the mire and bog well nigh up to my knees. Luckily, I 
had wrapped my white stockings round my prayer-book, and put 
them in my pocket, before I set out. ’ ’ 


10 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


“ Oh, Manon, how I wish I had seen you!” cried Marguerite; 
“ you must have looked so droll, with your large ankles all covered 
in mud. Never mind, Bello, you shall come too, and carry me 
through these wonderful torrents on your back,” and she shook her 
long, bright curls over the hound’s eyes to wake him. He made a 
start, but, on seeing how matters stood, only gave his usual impa- 
tient bark,' and, turning his head resolutely toward the fire, went off 
again to sleep. Mr. St. John closed his eyes, wearied, as he gen- 
erally grew toward evening; and there was no sound for some min- 
utes but the occasional click of Manon’s knitting-needles, or the lit- 
tle hissing voices from the wood-fire, and the eternal pattering of the 
rain. Marguerite was just meditating going in search of her kitten 
to rouse up Bello and make them all less silent, when the old clock 
in the hall struck nine. 

“ Supper-time already!” she cried, jumping up. “How late we 
are to-night! Come, Manon, let us get lights at once, and make the 
omelette.” 

Manon carefully folded her work, having first removed the dis- 
engaged pins from their place in her black hair, and struck them 
with much precision through the stocking; then she placed it all in 
the ample pocket of her apron, and followed Marguerite to the 
door. They felt their way through winding passages and down 
many treacherous descents,- until they reached the kitchen, where 
Manon, after considerable groping, struck a light, and they began 
their evening labors. 

The kitchen was a low, dark, vaulted room, so large that it 
seemed to extend under the whole ground-floor of the house; and 
the one candle and few expiring embers on the hearth, instead of 
lighting its obscurity, appeared only to render it more intense. 
There were strange old closets and projections, behind which a dozen 
men might lie concealed, in this kitchen; and a ghostly owl took 
delight in flapping his wings against the casements of an evening; 
so, altogether, Manon was not fond of frequenting it alone after 
twilight, and generally persuaded mademoiselle to accompany her 
— for Marguerite was not afraid of ghosts or owls, and she also 
liked to assist with her own hands in preparing her father’s supper. 

Manon on her knees, quickly succeeded in fanning the wood em- 
bers into a blaze; the savory omelette was soon upon the fire; the 
roasted potatoes among the ashes declared to be done to perfection; 
and then Marguerite filled the kettle, and got ready the little tea- 
service. Mr. St. John retained his old English liking for tea at 
night; and it was his daughter’s pleasure to arrange it for him her- 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


11 


self, and to take care that it was strong and well made. Her father’s 
cup of good tea was the one extravagance of their household. She 
looked like a little fairy, contrasted with Manon’s solid form, while 
she flitted about, searching for the different objects she required, 
among the uncouth shMows of the place; and her white, slender 
hands, and that nameless air of high birth which was visible in 
each of her movements, seemed strangely at variance with the place 
and her occupation. She went on chatting merrily to Manon in her 
sweet, full voice, while the old servant, although perfectly familiar, 
invariably answered in a tone of respect which, even to strangers, 
would have expressed the difference of condition, and her own sense 
of it. 

This has been a long day, Manon,” said Marguerite, suddenly. 

My days are never long, mademoiselle; and to-day I have been 
looking over the last year’s preserves to see what we must make this 
summer. Will you believe it, ma mie, two jars of my best green- 
gages were empty? and I never knew the mice to touch them be 
fore.” 

“ The mice, you silly old Manon! more likely Bruno!” 

Manon almost dropped the pan containing her omelette, and her 
eyes flashed fire. Bruno!” she exclaimed. If I thought that 
lout — that idiot — that cochon de paysan— had touched one of my 
master’s greengages, I would — Bruno, indeed!” 

“There,” cried Marguerite, “I have made you happy for the 
night in giving you Bruno’s sins to think over. Do you know, 
Manon, I wish sometimes that Bruno, or you, or some one, would 
do something really wrong? I am so tired of nothing happening. ” 

“ Nothing happening!” echoed old Manon. “ Why, Gilbert, the 
peddler, was here yesterday with all the news from Quimper; and 
Friday eight days Monsieur le Cure met us in the road; and, in 

three weeks we shall have the fair at N . Mon Dieu, it seems 

to me that a great deal happens.” 

“Does it?” answered Marguerite, dreamily; “well, I suppose 
so. But sometimes, lately, I have wished for something more — I 
can not exactly tell what. What can I want, Manon?” 

If Manon knew, she did not choose to speak; but, inspecting the 
omelette closely, she declared it to be done d ramr; and then, re- 
marking that the carafe was empty, went off to fill it with fresh 
water, while Marguerite, who had to arrange the tray, forgot all 
about her own question. 

And now the repast was ready, and carried by Manon, Marguerite 
preceding her with a light. The snowy cloth was laid, the invalid’s 


12 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFPE. 


chair wheeled round to the table, and Manon had taken her place 
behind her master, when an event suddenly occurred — for certainly 
the first time, at such an hour, within a dozen years — which made 
them all start with astonishment : the great bell of the court-yard 
rang. Mr. St. John looked uneasy, as an invalid always does at 
any unexpected interruption of his usual existence. Manon ex- 
claimed, “ Mon Dieu!” and crossed herself; Bello, awakened this 
time in good earnest, gave a long, unearthly howl, which was 
echoed by the fierce barking of the Watch-dog without; while 
Marguerite clapped her hands with delight at “ anything happen- 
ing. ’ ’ Manon was the first to speak. 

“ Oh, master, they must be robbers — there can be no doubt of it; 
no visitor ever comes to Kersaint, and the country people know me 
better than to dare ring at the great bell at this hour; we shall all 
be murdered. Ah, bon Dieu, and all the saints, help us!’' 

Marguerite laughed aloud, and Mr. St. John answered — ‘‘No, 
good Manon; if robbers were to attack a house like this, which is 
not likely, they would enter by the garden, and not warn us quite 
so loudly of their intentions. It is, more probably, some wayfarer 
overtaken by the storm, and seeking a night’s shelter.” 

“ Then come, Manon,” cried Marguerite, seizing a light with one 
hand, and the servant’s sleeve with the other; “let us open the 
door at once, and admit this poor traveler to our fire. Father, tell 
her to come with me!” — for Manon visibly hesitated, and drew back. 

“ Nay, Marguerite,” he answered, “ though I have small fears 
of robbers, yet, at this unusual hour, it would certainly be well to 
hold some parley through the little lattice, before opening the gates. 
I will go myself, and ascertain the character of our visitors, and do 
you remain here until my return;” and he rose feebly from his seat. 
But to the last proposal his daughter and Manon made so instant 
and decided a resistance, that Mr. St. John was soon obliged to give 
them their own way. He must remain quietly by the fire-side, while 
they proceeded to the lattice; and if, after scrutinizing the strangers, 
they were not satisfied with their appearance. Marguerite would re- 
turn and tell him the result; and Bello, meanwhile, should go as their 
protector. So they left the room; but Manon first placed the ome- 
lette and potatoes on a stand before the fire. No excitement made 
her forget her master’s comfort; and, although she had just declared 
that they would all be robbed and murdered, she seemed to think it 
well to keep the supper hot until the completion of the tragedy. 

The little window mentioned by Mr. St. John had formerly be- 
longed to the concierge, or, in more ancient times still, to the 


PHIlilP EARKSCLIFFE. 


13 


manoir- warden, and was scarcely more than a loop-hole through the 
solid masonry on the outer side of the court facing the road; so that 
in daylight, it commanded a good view of any person standing be- 
fore the gates. Having lighted a lantern Manon undid the mani- 
fold bolts of the house-door, her healthy red face being, by this 
time, several shades paler than usual, and accompanied by Bello, 
they both ran through the rain, across the court-yard, and gained 
the shelter of the great outer gates. There, a windiog stone stair- 
case led them up into the small chamber, or, more properly speak- 
ing, look-out — for there was scarcely enough room in it for more 
than one person at a time — in which the loop-hole window was 
placed. After some difficulty, Manon undid the rusty fastenings of 
the casement, and, with considerable trepidation of manner, looked 
out first. But such a torrent of rain and sleet beat into her face as 
nearly blinded her, and she quickly drew back her head, exclaim- 
ing angrily — '' Millestonnerresr' which, under the circumstances, 
was not inappropriate. Marguerite, with a stifled laugh, next at- 
tempted, but with almost similar success. They had entirely for- 
gotten that, while the light from their own lantern rendered their 
movements perfectly clear to any person without, they were them- 
selves unable to see an inch into the profound darkness of the night. 

“ What shall we do?” whispered Marguerite, upon whose courage 
the gloom and uncertainty were beginning to tell a little; ** had we 
better go down and speak through the door, or — ” 

” Return to the house at once, and not look at them at all,” 
added Manon, quickly, as another vigorous peal of the bell close be- 
side them made them both start again. 

”No, no, Manon; it may be some poor travelers seeking for 
shelter, as my father said. Let us first fasten up the chain, so that 
thej^ can not enter, and then open the gate an inch or two, and 
speak to them. ” 

Manon unwillingly complied; and after much delay, caused by 
the trembling of her great strong hands, the gate was opened. She 
was, by this time, so gasping and frightened, that she could not get 
out a word; so Marguerite advanced her own face to the small 
space which was left open, to be speaker; while Manon held the 
light, exactly where it was in no service in seeing the strangers, but 
fell full upon the girl’s figure, and long streaming hair; and old 
Bello snarled and showed every tooth in his head, as he stood, 
waiting to seize upon anybody’s legs who might enter. 

” Who are you?” said Marguerite, rather faintly, in French, of 
course; ” and do you wish to come in?” 


14 


PHILIP EAHKSCLIFPE. 


Whether it was this question, or the sight of the enraged old 
hound, and Manon’s terrified face, or all combined, which produced 
the effect, is unknown; but a suppressed laugh was the first reply. 
Marguerite’s courage returned at the sound. 

“ Turn the lantern this way, so that we can see them,” she whis- 
pered, looking round. Manon did so, and the light streamed — not 
upon a band of robbers — but upon the face of one young and hand- 
some man, who, perfectly drenched with rain, stood outside in the 
road. 

“ Eh, mon Dieu!^^ exclaimed Marguerite, reassured in a moment, 
“ if I had only known it was you. Wait one moment, please,” and, 
aided by Manon, she hastily withdrew the chain, having first si- 
lenced Bello with an admonition to be friendly, which he appeared 
rather imperfectly to understand, as he still continued showing his 
teeth, and uttering a low, dissatisfied growl. The stranger entered, 
his cap in his hand, and the water literally streaming from his 
clothes and hair, and began an apology for disturbing them, in tol- 
erable French, but which Marguerite knew in a moment to be that 
of a foreigner. 

” I am so glad you have found our house,” she replied, in En- 
glish; ” my father wi]l be delighted to see you, and he is an En- 
glishman. You are very welcome to Kersaint.” 

The young stranger looked well pleased with his reception; and, 
when he had assisted in replacing the chain, they all crossed the 
court together. But, after entering the house, and just as Manon 
had refastened the bolts, while Marguerite was waiting impatiently 
to conduct the visitor to Mr. St. John, Bello overturned the lantern, 
which had been placed on the floor, and they were suddenly left in 
utter darkness. 

“ Never mind,” cried Marguerite, laughing. ” I know the house 
quite as well at night as in the day. Give me your hand, please, 
and I will take you to my father. ’ ’ 

The stranger resigned his hand, nothing loth, to her little warm 
touch; and she led him on through endless "windings and passages, 
occasionally saying, ‘'Now down one step — now up two steps,” 
until he began to think he was in some enchanted house without an 
end. At length they reached the door of the salle; there Margue- 
rite whispered, “ Just wait one moment here, while I go in; for my 
father is not strong, and I must prepare him to see you,” and, en- 
tering the room, she closed the door, with the simplicity of a child, 
exactly in his face; while Manon made many apologies, and vainly 
groped about for a light. 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


15 


“ It was a traveler, and I have let him in, father. He is quite 
young, very handsome, and an Englishman — and, oh, so wet!” 
cried Marguerite; while the stranger, just outside the door, natural- 
ly heard every word. 

” An Englishman,” echoed her father, rising from his seat, and 
an expression of pleasure crossing his face. ” An Englishman at 
Kersaint! — this is, indeed, strange — after more than fifteen years, to 
meet one of my countrymen again! Well, he shall receive all the 
welcome we have to offer; hut where have you left him, child? — 
not still shivering in the cold, I hope?” 

” Oh, no, father!” returned Marguerite, triumphant at her own 
management. ” He is quite close — only just outside the door;” and 
she returned to open it. Mr. St. John advanced to meet the stranger, 
with the easy courtesy of a man who had been long used to good 
society. He shook his hand, and made many excuses for their sus- 
picious mode of giving him welcome, adding — ‘ ‘ But a^ 1 have lived 
in this lonely spot for sixteen years, and you are my first evening 
visitor, you will understand that we are somewhat cautious of open- 
ing our doors after nightfall.” 

The Englishman said that he ought to apologize himself for dis- 
turbing the household at such an unseasonable hour. He was trav- 
eling through Brittany alone, and on foot, and, having lost his way, 
had been overtaken by the storm, and was almost blinded with the 
beating rain, when he suddenly found himself under the walls of 
the chateau, and rang the bell, in hopes of finding it inhabited. 
” Although,” he added, ” with little expectation of meeting so kind- 
ly a reception;” and he glanced at Marguerite. 

But now,” returned Mr. St. John, ” before you partake of re- 
freshment, which ^ou must so greatly need, or even approach the 
fire, you must at once change your dripping garments. Manon, 
take this gentleman to my room, and help him to find whatever he 
requires among my wardrobe.” 

The stranger, however, pointing to a small water-proof knapsack 
slung across his shoulders, said he was, fortunately, provided with 
a dry suit of clothes, and, in five minutes, would be ready to join 
them at the supper- table; and he then accompanied Manon upstairs. 
It was not long before he reappeared. In the meantime, Manon had 
added some dainties from her store-room to their repast, and Mar- 
guerite prepared some fresh tea; while her tongue ran on in a perfect 
maze of delightful bewilderment at the adventure. 

” My own countryman — the first I ever saw but you, father — and 
so handsome, and such a soft voice! I never saw anything like it 


16 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFPE. 


all before. Oh! we must ask him to stay a long time at Kersaint — 
it will be such a new life for us to have a visitor; and — and — 1 shall 
have no time to go with you to church on Sunday, Manon.” 


CHAPTER II. 

The entrance of the stranger cut short Marguerite’s words; and the 
little party soon sat down to their evening meal. Bello, although part- 
ly reassured, kept very close to his master, and occasionally eyed the 
new-comer from under his shaggy brows with no friendly expres- 
sion, as though aggrieved at this interruption of their accustomed 
life; but upon the human members of the lonely household the 
guest quickly produced a most favorable impression. Mr, St. 
John’s pale face grew almost animated while listening to his lively 
account of his Breton adventures; Marguerite’s open delight ex- 
pressed itself both in looks and words; and Manon, who could not 
understand the conversation, leisurely surveyed his handsome face 
and fine linen, and mentally decided that he was a worthy guest to 
sit at their table. It was certainly a face upon which nobility — if 
not of birth, that of soul — was legibly written. 

The Englishman was pale, and though young — apparently about 
four- or five-and-twenty — had already that care-worn look which 
can arise only from some deep sorrow, or a too early knowledge of 
life and its passions. His forehead was high and fair; his features 
regular and nobly cast; and his eyes, somewhat deeply set, had a 
mingled expression of grave intellect and youthful softness, which 
gave a peculiar charm to his face. He was rather above the middle 
height, but slightly made; and Manon thought she had never seen 
such small fair hands before. Marguerite’s gaze was quite as free 
as the old servant’s; but what she noticed most was the kindly 
expression of the stranger when he addressed herself, and the un- 
usually musical tones of his voice. And, as Marguerite’s world had 
hitherto been limited to her father, the cure, Manon and the Breton 
peasants, it is not surprising that her admiration for their new guest 
bordered upon the enthusiastic. 

“I hope you like our Bretagne,” she said, when a pause em- 
boldened her to speak. 

” What I have seen of it and its people as yet,” he answered, 
“ has interested me greatly; especially in this wild, sea-side district, 
where I hope to linger away half the summer ” (her face grew so 
bright). ” But to say our Bretagne — have you then given up your 
claim to be Saxon, as the people here call us?” 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


17 


“ Ah!” answered her father, “ poor little Marguerite forgets some- 
times that she is English. She was born in this old house, where 
her whole childhood has since been passed; and has never known 
anything but the rocks and forests of Brittany. You are the first 
Englishman, excepting myself, that she has ever seen; and, but that 
I make it a point for her to read with me in her own language every 
day, she would long ago have been French in that as in everything 
else. Even as it is, I suppose, she speaks like a foreigner; for 
Manon is much with us in our primitive life, and we never con- 
verse before her in a language she can not understand; and our good 
friend the cure, who occasionally spends the winter evenings with 
us, has been Marguerite’s French teacher from her infancy.” 

“I certainly thought your daughter was French,” replied the 
stranger; ” though speaking English unusually well.” 

“Ah! I want practice,” replied Marguerite, rather indignantly; 
“ for, father, you know you read all day, except when you are 
teaching me, and then in the evening we must talk French for Manon. 
Now that monsieur is come, however, ” she added, “I shall have some 
one to talk to;” and she glanced at the young Englishman, who could 
not forbear smiling at her childish expressions, and utter absence of 
what is usually called manner. He resumed his conversation with 
Mr. St. John, but in a few minutes Marguerite rose, and going to her 
father’s side, put her arm round his neck, and whispered something. 
He smiled and shook his head; but she insisted, and then looking 
toward his guest, Mr. St. John said — “ Although my little daughter 
has been brought up aniiong wilds and deserts all her life, she has 
still the natural curiosity of her sex at heart; and can not rest until 
she has heard the name' of our visitor.” 

“ Oh! petit papa,'' interrupted Marguerite; “when you know I 
wished you to ask for yourself, and not forme!” and she blushed 
crimson; but still fixed her eyes intently upon the young English- 
man, as though the subject were one of all engrossing interest. 

For a moment the young man looked somewhat confused, and the 
slightest shade of color rose in his own face at the question; but 
quickly recovering his composure he replied, “ I am only too happy 
to satisfy mademoiselle’s wish. My name is Philip Earnscliffe.” 
And his tone seemed to imply that in hearing that answer, his new 
friend would at once be acquainted with his history. But Mr. St. 
John simply bowed with the air of one who hears a perfectly un- 
known name, and Marguerite communicated the discovery to Manon 
in French, adding in a whisper, ‘ ‘ that she thought Philip Earnscliffe 
the most beautiful name in the whole world;” while the stranger 


18 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


himself was evidently relieved at the unconscious manner of his host 
on hearing his name. 

“ And now, Marguerite, as your own curiosity is satisfied, perhaps 
you will tell Mr. Earnscliffe how we out- of-the- world people call 
ourselves,” said her father. 

‘‘Pray do so,” added the stranger. “ I may now confess that, 
for the last hour, I also have wished to ask that question.” 

They had left the supper- table, and were all seated round the fire; 
Marguerite in her old place at her father’s feet, with her arm over 
Bello, who was gladly forgetting his injuries under the infiuence of 
warmth and sleep; and Mr. Earnscliffe placed where his eyes could 
rest fully upon the little group. Marguerite looked up at him, when 
her father spoke, with that full, confiding gaze, never seen save on 
the face of a child, and replied gravely — ‘‘ My father’s name is 
Percy, and mine is Marguerite Lilia St. John. Marguerite, after 
my little sister, who died before I was born, and Lilia,” she added, 
very softly, “after my own dear mother. I never saw her, mon- 
sieur; she left us alone,” touching her father’s hand, “ when I was 
born.” 

Her father’s face clouded at these recollections; and he soon grew 
so pale and silent, that Manon, who was hovering about the back- 
ground, came forward, and reminded him that it was long past his 
usual hour for rest; then, turning respectfully to Earnscliffe, she 
said — “ My master is not very strong at present, sir; and mademoi- 
selle and I are obliged to keep watch over his health.” 

The guest having entreated that Mr. St. John would not remain 
longer, out of ceremony toward him, he rose; and then the English- 
man first fully saw how thin and weak he was. He extended his 
hand to Earnscliffe, and said, kindly, he should hope on the morrow 
to rise stronger, and be better able to entertain him, adding — “ at all 
events, my little one will be only too delighted to show you all the 
walks and wonders of the neighborhood; and I hope you will spend 
as long a time at Kersaint as you can find anything to interest you. ” 

Earnscliffe heartily accepted this invitation, and, after bidding him 
“good-night,” his host withdrew — first kissing his daughter, and 
saying, in a low voice, “ But you, my child, can stay up longer and 
entertain our guest. ’ ’ 

“ And not help you, father?” 

’ “Ho, not to-night, darling.” And he took Manon’s arm, and 
walked to the door. 

Marguerite had a confused idea that politeness required her to re- 
main by the visitor’s side; but when she saw her father, for the first 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


19 


time since his last serious illness, going up to his room without her 
attendance, the tears rushed into her eyes, and she turned round to 
Earnscliffe — “ Oh! I must go with him, sir, if you please. I will 
not be long — but, indeed, I can not see him walking so feebly, and 
not help as well as Manon!” 

Earnscliffe begged her to do so; and, running lightly to her 
father’s side, she supported him with her own firm young arm; 
while the poor invalid smiled gratefully at his child’s warm love, 
which nothing could for a moment turn aside. 

The stranger was left alone, and stood gazing at the door through 
which Mr. St. John and his daughter had disappeared; and a 
gloomy expression crossed his face, as he recalled the scene he had 
just witnessed. '‘This dying man,” he thought, “living in the 
midst of a dreary solitude, and with pain and suffering written upon 
his features, possesses the priceless treasure of human love, which I, 
with youth and health, have never found in the world. He is happy 
in all the first affection of that girl’s young heart. And what a 
lovely being she is!’’ he continued, to himself. “ With the uncon- 
scious grace of a perfect woman, and the artlessness of a child. 
How she looked at me, and smiled, and then turned away her little 
head, blushing, only to look again a moment afterward!” He 
thought for some minutes, then said, half aloud — “ It will be better 
for her, and for me, too, perhaps, that I should leave them to-mor- 
row morning;” and he turned round, and walked up and down be- 
fore the fire. 

But, as still he continued alone, his late companions seemed 
gradually to lose their recent tangible forms, and to fade into a mere 
creation of his own brain. The lonely spot in which he had sud- 
denly met two such beings as Mr. St. John and his daughter — the 
manner of their introduction — the chateau with its Old World fur- 
niture — the dim outline of the gigantic hound who lay outstretched 
upon the hearth, and the weird voices of the storm, which still beat 
against the windows — all combined to give to the evening’s advent- 
ure something dreamy and unlife-like; and Marguerite seemed to 
him more like some Breton fairy, than a real blooming inhabitant of 
that gloomy house. “She is a mere child, too,” he went on at 
length — “ a lovely little meadow daisy — but no more! What can 
she be to me, but a pretty, wild idea for the heroine of my next 
book? Why, her whole innocent life precludes any other thoughts, 
even if my own position did not. I will stay and make this fresh 
nature my study, and leave them in a few days. I have had enough 
of love ” — he smiled bitterly — “without adding another failure to 


20 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


my experience; and if I do create any feeling in this girl’s heart, it 
will be only the awakening of a first, fancy, no deeper than that of a 
child for a new toy. All her love is given to her father; and if it 
were not so, she would run small danger from me.” 

The door opened, and the little meadow-daisy entering herself, 
interrupted his meditations upon her. She approached him, her 
face radiant with a grave happiness. 

“You have done my father good already!” she cried. “ Although 
he is tired, he is so cheerful, and glad to have heard an English 
voice. Manon says — and she understands well about his health — 
that it will do him more good than taking all the medicines in the 
world to have a new companion. I know so little, you see, ” she 
added, humbly, “ that 1 am not enough for him.” 

Earnscliffe thought how charming it was w^hen a woman knew so 
little, but he checked a rising compliment, and only inquired if her 
father had been long ill. 

“Oh! do not call him ill,” she answered, with a look of sudden 
terror. “ Surely you do not think that my father js ill?” 

Her voice faltered; and, to the beseeching expression of her eyes, 
Earnscliffe could only answer, gently, “ that he meant Mr. St. John 
appeared delicate and to require care.” 

“Yes! he is not very strong at present; but then, you know, we 
have had a long, cold winter, and he has not had much opportunity 
yet of recovering from his illness in the autumn, when he had a lin- 
gering, low fever. Now that the summer has come, he can be out 
all day in the garden, and gain his strength. Should you not think 
he will be quite well in two or three months?” 

Earnscliffe tried to join in her hopes, although his own conviction 
was that Mr. St. John had not long to live, but her terrified look at 
the mere idea of her father being seriously ill, made him turn from 
the subject, and he began inquiring how she spent her own time in 
summer. This was a theme on which Marguerite could be eloquent. 
She told him of all the wild haunts of the sea- shore — of the distant 
caves among the St. Hernot rocks— of the one small, sunny bay so 
hard to reach, even at low water, but where you were sure to find 
the most beautiful shells and sea- weed — of the high cliff, from 
whence there was the widest view — of the ruined chapel — the heath 
—the fir-forests — the meadows, now full of primrose and hepatica — 
the hawthorn lane, with the linnet’s nest — and, lastly, of their own 
orchard and garden; ending it all with — “ But, if to-morrow is 
only fine, I will take you to see our walks, and then you will believe 
what a happy place this is in summer.” 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


21 


He listened with evident interest, and encouraged her to proceed 
with her descriptions. It was something strangely new to him to 
listen to such conversation as hers; and he found a singular pleasure 
in gazing down upon her animated features, and hearing all her 
childish accounts of her life. Marguerite soon forgot that she had 
only known him two hours; and when Manon at length entered, 
she found the guest still standing by the fire, with Marguerite close 
to his side, speaking very earnestly, and looking up in his face. 

‘‘Monsieur’s room is ready,” said Manon; ” and, after his cold 
drenching, he should endeavor to get a good night’s rest — it is past 
eleven o’clock. ” 

“ Past eleven!” echoed Marguerite, who had never been up so 
late before. ” Why, how quickly the time has gone! 1 thought it 
was only ten minutes since my father left us.” 

It was impossible for the stranger not to feel somewhat pleased at 
this naif acknowledgment, from such a mouth: and as he looked in 
her glowing face, he thought he had never, among all the beauties 
of London, seen any one to compare with the little meadow- daisy. 
Marguerite. She held out her hand with the most perfect frank- 
ness, wishing him “ Good-night;” and Earnscliffe followed Manon 
up the oak staircase, and along the winding passages of. the first 
floor, to the room prepared for him — a quaint old chamber, all 
hung with faded blue arras, and where he could hear the loud beat- 
ing of the waves close under the windows; but a cheerful wood-fire 
blazed on the hearth, and made him seem welcome. 

“ Good-night and sound sleep to monsieur,” said Manon, as she 
handed him the light, and took a last look round the room, to see 
that all was in comfortable order for the stranger. Then she closed 
the door, and descended to her young mistress. Marguerite was 
still standing in the same place, with Bello sound asleep at her feet, 
wishing the morrow were come, and wondering why the whole 
world had suddenly grown so bright. 

“Is it not delightful, Manon?” she exclaimed, as her nurse re- 
entered. 

“ What, ma mie!” 

“Why, having a visitor, of course — and sucJi a visitor! Oh! 
Manon, how unlike any one here, with his gentle manner, and low 
voice! And he spoke so beautifully to my father — and yet did not 
mind listening to my childish talk. Did you ever see any one so 
handsome?” 

“ This young man is good-looking,” replied the other, in a tone 
which sounded very cold to Marguerite, “ and his shirt front is of 


22 


PHILIP EARKSCLIPFE. 


the finest batiste I ever saw; but he has a look at times which is 
much too grave for such a young face. I don’t believe his life has 
been as happy as ours, ma mie!” 

And Manon was right. 


CHAPTER III. 

Philip Earnsclifpe had lived and suffered more than the gener- 
ality of men at six-and- twenty. His parents both died during his 
early childhood, and circumstances had thrown him, when a mere 
boy, upon the treacherous sea of London society. Gifted to no com- 
mon extent — handsome, warm-hearted, generous, and, above all, the 
heir to an immense fortune, Earnscliffe had not wanted friends. Few, 
indeed, could look on his fair, noble face, or hear the tones of his sin- 
gularly sweet voice, without becoming interested in him; but, unfort- 
unately, his lot lay among a class of persons, of all, the least likely to 
conceive really distinterested attachments, or to assist in the forma- 
tion of a character, which natural softness and absence of all self- 
reliance made only too ductile. 

Philip’s mother was a woman of high family — which family she 
was considered to have irrevocably disgraced, by eloping with her 
brother’s tutor at the very time her mother was planning her mar- 
riage with a hoary-headed foreign prince. Mr. Earnscliffe was a 
gentleman by birih as in feeling, and was also a scholar of no mean 
attainments; but he was poor, and without connection or influence 
in the Church; and all the happy married life of Philip’s parents 
was spent in an obscure and very small living in the north of Eng- 
land. For the outraged family of Earnscliffe ’s wife would not be- 
stow any of their church property upon the man who had disgraced 
them; and, indeed, held no communication whatever with their 
daughter from the hour of her marriage. Philip was the only off- 
spring of the union, and all the fond love of these two gentle hearts 
was centered in their lovely, promising child. 

But when the boy was about four years old, Mr. Earnscliffe ’s 
health, at no time robust, began visibly to decline. The strong, 
vigorous air of the North had never suited him, although he had not 
felt himself justified in giving up his small living for this cause; and 
not until it was too late did his agonized wife read in his face, and 
in the evasive answers of the country physician, that the fiat had 
gone forth — and they were to part. But, from the first, something 
told her she would not long survive her husband. She had been his 
. so exclusively, from the moment her own family cast her off, and in 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


23 


their lonely life they had seen so little of any but each other, that 
her very existence seemed bound up in that of Earnscliffe, as every 
will and thought of her heart were dependent upon his. Had it not 
been for the child, perhaps neither of them would have greatly 
grieved to leave the world, where they had met with so much neg- 
lect. But their child — their unprotected, unprovided-for child — to 
leave him, was indeed the bitterness of death; and all the thoughts 
of both turned unceasingly upon him, and the stranger hands into 
which their unstained jewel was to be committed. 

Mr. EarnsCliffe had ono brother, niany years older than himself, 
and a man of enormous property, amassed solely by his own en- 
deavors, in India. Their father was a man of small fortune, and 
not able to give both his sons a college education; so the elder and 
stronger one, had to make his way for himself; while the delicate, 
gentle Herbert was destined for the church from his infancy. A 
mere lad, with a few pounds in his pocket. Miles Earnsciffe started, 
and worked his way out in a merchant vessel. On his arrival in 
India, he got one of the most menial offices in a large mercantile 
firm; one of the partners having picked the boy up for his shrewd 
face, but without recommendation. A dogged, untiring persever- 
ance and thorough integrity, united, certainly, to some degree of 
good fortune, raised him step by step, from errand-boy to clerk — 
clerk to manager — manager to partner — until, at length. Miles 
Earnscliffe was one of the wealthiest merchants in Calcutta; and 
thirty years after he had left his country a friendless, penniless 
youth, he returned to it with boundless wealth, and as many friends 
as he had rupees. He had never held much communication with 
his brother, and was ignorant of his marriage, or its results. Short- 
ly after his return, however, he received a letter, in which Herbert, 
after warmly congratulating him on his brilliant fortunes, gave him 
a sketch of his own life — of his marriage, and present condition — 
concluding with a hope that, for the future, the brothers would see 
more of each other than their divided state had hitherto permitted. 
But with the suspicion which long years of lonely labor, and dis- 
trust of every one but himself, had engendered. Miles Earnscliffe 
thought that the gentle, affectionate letter contained some covert re- 
quest for money; and as he read, every feature in his face worked 
with rage. Of poverty — as poverty — he had, like all self-made men, 
the most utter contempt; but when to this was added education, re- 
finement, and the profession of a gentleman, he could scarcely keep 
his hatred within bounds. He crunched the letter up, flung it into 
the fire, and paced up and down his lordly room, muttering aloud — 


24 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


“ So, my fine gentleman brother, whose white hands were not made 
for work — with your college education, and brainful of Greek and 
Hebrew — you have married a noble, titled beggar, whose family 
despise and scorn you; and I — the low, vulgar, hard-working trades- 
man-brother, am to help you and your grand lady- wife to live! 

Never, by !” And, leaviog his untasted breakfast, he sat 

down, and wrote Herbert a coarse, unfeeling letter; which the latter 
read once, destroyed, and never even mentioned to his wife. 

And thus ended the brothers’ intercourse. But when death was 
upon him, and Earnscliffe looked in his little Philip’s face, pride 
died in his heart. He forgot the past insult, and only remembered 
his isolated position, and that his brother might be the child’s 
powerful friend and protector for life. Accordingly, after deep de- 
liberation, he made a new will, appointing Miles sole guardian of 
his son, and leaving the small property he had to bequeath to his 
care. This done, he consigned the future to the hands of Provi- 
dence; rightly judging that his brother’s iron heart might more 
readily soften to the child as an orphan than during his parents’ 
lifetime. In three months from this time Philip’s father and 
mother were dead. Miles read the announcement of his brother’s 
death in the paper; and, a few weeks afterward, that of his wife, 
and something human smote at his heart as he thought of the child; 
but pride forbade him making any inquiries about ‘‘ pauper rela- 
tions.” 

It was now late in the autumn; and, one cold, stormy night. Miles 
sat alone in his splendid dining-room, over his wine. He was ab- 
stemious from long habit, and never took more than two or three 
glasses; so now he sat, with his empty glass at his side, watching 
the bright logs crackle and blaze upon the hearth, and listening to 
the mournful soughing of the wind, as it beat fitfully upon the win- 
dows. It sounded to him like the voices of the poor trying in vain 
to enter the rich man’s dwelling, and the unusual thoughfmade 
him turn restlessly in his easy-chair. 

“ Will the evening papers never come?” he exclaimed, after again 
waiting long and silently. “It is cursed lonely to-night. ” And 
the weary Croesus rang the bell impatiently. 

At that moment, a knock — a little fiuttering knock — came at the 
dining-room door. 

” Come in!” thundered Miles. “ What the devil are the idiots at 
now? scratching like rats, instead of bringing me my paper?” 

The door opened slowly, and only after repeated turnings of the 
handle, and in came — to old Miles’s amazement, and almost horror 


PHILIP EARKSCLIPFE. 


25 


— a child— a very small, young child, dressed in the deepest black, 
and with long fair hair falling all round its face and neck. 

What the !” he began, hastily, starting to his feet; but the 

words died unfinished on his lips — as still, slowly, but without the 
slightest trace of fear or shyness, the child continued to approach 
him. When he was quite near, he looked up in Miles’s face, and 
touching his hand with his own little cold finger, said — “ Are you 
my uncle? If you are, I have brought you a letter from my papa:” 
and he pulled a sealed envelope from under his dress, and held it up 
to him. 

Earnscliffe was a cold, hard, suspicious, worldly man: but he was 
human — and in every human breast lurks the tide of blood, and 
pity for a fatherless child. And as Philip, in all the confidence of 
childhood, stood looking up in his uncle’s face, his lips parted, and 
the golden curls falling back from his open brow, he recalled so 
strongly, in his infantine beauty, the image of his own father — 
whom Miles had last seen, long years before, a bright-eyed boy, 
hanging round his neck, and weeping before he went to India — lhat 
his usually hard feelings were softened in the sudden remembrance 
of his youth; and, seizing his nephew in his arms, he kissed him 
with more tenderness than he had shown to anything for years. 
Philip wound his little arms round his neck, and stroked hi^ cheek. 
His parents had prepared him to love him, and with the ready 
warmth of his nature, he already clung to the uncle who was to sup- 
ply their place to him. Supply their place — poor child! 

On his mother’s death, their nearest neighbors, a farmer and his 
wife, had taken Philip to their house, as they had already promised 
Earnscliffe, and comforted him, in their homely fashion, during his 
first passionate sorrow; but three weeks had now elapsed, and already 
his pale cheeks were more blooming, and he began again to laugh 
merrily over his play. In childhood, three weeks is an eternity of 
grief. The good farmer had himself journeyed with Philip to 
Miles Earnscliffe ’s door, and there left him, as his father requested, 
merely asking the servants to allow the boy, unannounced, to enter 
his uncle’s presence. At first there was considerable demur among 
these grand gentlemen as to the propriety of this proceeding; but 
Philip settled the matter for himself by walking through them all 
with the air of a young prince, and knocking at the first door that 
took his fancy, which chanced to be that of the dining-room; and 
thus, as we have seen, introduced himself to his uncle’s notice. 
Philip still nestled in his new protector’s arms, when the door noise' 


26 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


lessly opened, and the stately butler entered, contrition and apology 
duly impressed upon his fat features. 

“ Indeed, sir, it was quite against my knowledge, sir — ” he was 
beginning, when he suddenly stopped. The sight of Miles Earns- 
cliffe — of Ms master — with a child in his arms, so astonished the 
worthy man, that he was — to use his own word when describing the 
scene afterward — “ took all of a heap,'' and the unfinished sentence 
gurgled and choked in his throat. 

Miles sat the boy hastily on the ground, enraged that one of his 
own servants should have witnessed his emotion, and, red with 
passion, demanded what he meant. 

“I did not know, sir," replied the gasping butler, “ that you 
might like to be interrupted, sir — I thought — ' ' 

“ And who requires you to think, sir?" was the reply. “ My 
nephew can go where he pleases in my house, and enter my dining- 
room when and as often as he likes without the interference of my 
servants. Send Mrs. Scott at once," he added, as the butler, very 
crest-fallen, left the room; and he was again alone with the new- 
comer, who hoped his uncle would never look so angry at him as he 
did at the big man with the white head and black breeches. 

Mrs. Scott, a thin, starched, unpleasant-looking, middle-aged 
female, was much aggrieved at hearing of the unexpected addition 
to the household. On the strength of many extraordinary accounts 
of wealthy nabobs espousing their own housekeepers, she had been 
always pleased at the isolation in which her master lived, and was 
disposed to look with no favorable eye upon any new claimant of 
his attentions. However, she put on her sweetest smiles as she pro- 
ceeded to the dining-room, and entered, with the blandest of court- 
esies to Miles, and what she meant for an encouraging, motherly 
look at Philip, who immediately grasped his uncle’s hand the tighter. 

" Mrs. Scott, my nephew having arrived some days earlier than I 
expected, you have as yet received no orders for his reception. You 
will now see a room prepared for him for to-night, and to-morrow 
have nurseries and attendants got ready for him at once." 

The housekeeper, with venom at her heart, smiled most sweetly 
at this announcement; and when Earnscliffe added — " And now 
take him with you for whatever refreshments he requires," held out 
her hand with great kindness to Philip; but the child turned away 
from her, and looked imploringly at Miles. 

" Oh, let me stay with you this once, uncle; 1 like to stay with 
you, and I don’t love her," pointing to Mrs. Scott. “ I will be so 
quiet here." Miles chuckled at this speech and at the housekeeper’s 


PHILIP EAENSCLIPFE. 


27 


visible discomfiture; and dismissing her, now fairly boiling over 
with indignation, prepared himself to spend the evening alone, in 
company with his brother’s child. He sat down in his arm-chair, 
and Philip, drawing a little stool to his feet, seated himself also. 

“ This is how I used to do at home with my papa,” said the boy; 
“ and he gave me my dessert on a plate.” 

“ Oh — oh!” said Miles, “ I see through it all now,” and he filled 
a plate with peaches and grapes, and handed it to him; “ it was for 
the sake of the dessert you wished to stay with me.” Philip 
jumped up, his face all in a glow of indignation. He had never 
even been accused of untruth before. 

“You may keep your fruit,” he said, pushing the plate as far as 
he could upon the table. “ I won’t eat it. 1 wanted to stop with 
yoxL, and never thought of your dessert till you gave it me ” — and 
his eyes hashed again. Miles was more pleased at this display of 
spirit than even with his former caresses; and, drawing him to his 
knee, said he did not doubt his truth, and only meant to joke him. 

“Oh,” returned Philip, brightening up, “if you were only in 
joke, of course, that is different, and I don’t care a bit; but you 
said it so like earnest ” — and all his anger vanished. So again he 
sat down, the plate in his lap, and began his fruit. How fair he 
looked, with the red fire-light dancing on his long, waving hair, 
and white neck and arms, which shone like marble upon his sable 
dress, dividing th6 fruit with his rosy fingers, and every minute 
looking up and smiling archly at Miles. 

“You have very good fruit, I think, here; we had only apples 
and plums at home, though they were very sweet, too. I never saw 
fruit like this before.” 

“ I should think not,” said his uncle, complacently. “You will 
see a great deal in my house that you never saw before.” 

“ Shall I?” returned Philip, with much animation. “ Oh, tell 
me what!” and, having finished his dainties, he came and stood 
close to his uncle’s side. “ Can you tell stories?” he whispered— as 
Miles remained silent — looking inquiringly up into his face. 

“ Well,” he replied, “ I suppose I could if I tried.” 

“ Then, please, let me sit on your lap, and tell them to me till my 
bed-time;” and, without further invitation, he seated himself on his 
uncle’s knee, folded his hands, composed himself comfortably to 
listen, and then said, “ Begin.” And old Miles began, awkwardly 
enough — as might be expected of a^-man who had never talked to 
children in his life — and in a very low voice, as though he were 
half ashamed of himself. But Philip saw no defects or hesitation; 


28 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


and, when he came to stories of parrots and monkeys, clapped his 
little hands with delight, and cried out, Tell it again — tell it 
again!” 

So Miles told it again; and went on improving until Philip was 
fairly in ecstasies, and thought he had never seen such a funny man 
as his uncle. Miles Earnscliffe, a funny man! And thus passed 
the evening. At length the child’s head drooped, and his eyes grew 
heavy with fatigue, and his uncle said he must go off to bed. 

Yes, directly,” said Philip. Then he lingered and looked 
rather shy — But I want to say something first. When my mam- 
ma was alive, I used to say my prayers to her. Oh, uncle, let me 
say them to you this one night, because I am all alone here, and I 
don’t like to say them to Mrs. Scott.” 

Miles assented with a husky voice; and the child knelt down, and, 
folding his dimpled hands on his uncle’s knees, said his evening 
prayers, concluding with “ God bless papa and mamma ” — poor lit- 
tle fellow! — as though they still needed the weak, imperfect prayer 
of their child. 

And now he is gone; and Miles sits long by the red fire-light, 
with new thoughts in his heart, and a softer expression on his hard 
face, and his dead brother’s open letter in his hand. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Philip was thus installed in his uncle’s house; and, in one of 
those sudden revulsions of the heart, to which the hardest of human 
beings are subject. Miles Earnscliffe had soon conceived an almost 
passionate love for the child. After living all his life distrustful 
and alone, a natural source of affection was at length, opened for his 
hitherto barren feelings, and they seemed more intense from the 
very fact of having been so long pent up in his own bosom. Philip 
was soon paramount in the house. Mrs. Scott, the boy seemed to 
look upon as a natural enemy; and after a six weeks’ war, Mrs. 
Scott was dismissed. He had a cheerful young relation of his old 
friend the farmer for his own attendant, birds and pets for his 
amusements, a Shetland pony to ride — in short, a flood of sunshine 
seemed to have broken upon the house, which used to be so “ dull 
and dignified.” 

Miles was more happy in the change than he would acknowledge 
to himself. To hear Philip’s little voice, as he played about the 
room during breakfast — to have him prattling at his knees, in the 
long winter evenings — to look in his fair face, and feel, “ he, of my 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIPFE. 


29 


own blood, and not a stranger, shall inherit my wealth ’’ — all 
this gave him a living interest in his life, and in his riches, which 
he had never felt before. As the boy grew older, he was formally 
announced by Miles to be his heir; and it is needless to say what 
numbers of friends awaited young Philip in the world. Although 
his uncle himself hated society, his pride was gratified by all the 
attentions showered upon his heir; and he would chuckle to him- 
self, as he thought “ how much love would Phil’s grand relations 
have shown him, if he had not been adopted by his vulgar old 
uncle?” 

For, gentle reader, the family of Philip’s mother — with that 
beautiful constancy to a rich relation, so frequently to be observed 
in the world — although they had cast off a daughter of their house 
for marrying a poor man, were exceedingly anxious to court the 
poor man’s rich brother. Miles had himself abandoned Herbert in 
his poverty; but he felt the greatest disgust at their meanness, and 
insulted his lordly relations on more than one occasion when he 
chanced to meet them in the world. After his adoption of Philip, 
however, and as the latter grew up, he began to relent toward them, 
for the child’s sake; for he wished his nephew to have an introduc- 
tion to the very society he had himself always affected to despise. 
The first amiable advances on the part of the eccentric Mr. Earns- 
cliffe — very rich men are only eccentric, never rude — were met cor- 
dially; his former rebuffs were forgotten with true Christian char- 
ity; and Philip found a score of affectionate grandparents, uncles, 
aunts, and cousins all ready to love him. As Herbert Earnscliffe’s 
son, they would, probably, have considered him a commonplace, 
uninteresting boy; but, as Miles Earnscliffe’s nephew, every one 
discovered that he had inherited his father’s wit, and his mother’s 
beauty. It happened that all these praises were, as regarded Philip, 
true. He grew up exceedingly handsome; with more, perhaps, of 
that beauty which awakens interest from the intellect shining 
through the outward form — than of the mere physical perfection 
which attracts the common mass of people. And yet Philip’s feat- 
ures, of themselves, were all goad and finely chiseled. The Grecian 
nose, and full, poet mouth, might have borne the most critical scru- 
tiny; although it was in his brow, and deep, spiritual eyes, that lay 
the rare charm of his face. 

He went to Harrow, and did not shine there; some of his mastem 
pronouncing him merely idle, others a dunce. But when Miles, in 
stern displeasure, questioned the boy upon these evil reports, Phil- 
ip’s only reply was — “ Uncle, I have as much ability as any of my 


30 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


masters, though I can not learn as they teach. Take me from 
school, and let me study at home, and I will be a greater man than 
any of them.’' Miles would do nothing of the kind, so Philip re- 
mained at Harrow the usual number of years, and left it with the 
proportionate amount of ignorance and Greek which can be ac- 
quired at an English public school. But his mind had not lain idle 
all this time. His education had been — not in the wretched daily 
routine of immoral classics — but in his life. In his school friend- 
ships, and dislikes; in all the varieties of human life — although only 
that of boys — which he had learned to analyze; in his own transi- 
tion from childhood into youth; in the long summer walks among 
the Harrow hills; in his solitary evening dreams under the starlight, 
his poet’s mind had gradually dawned. And at the end of five years 
he left school, no scholar, but a genius. 

“ What are you at, Phil?” his uncle would exclaim testily, when 
he was continually filling endless sheets of writing-paper, and ab- 
senting himself from all his old amusements; and Phil had not the 
moral courage to say ” he was writing a book;” knowing well that 
IMiles was no lover of aAithors, and would, probably, not be pleased 
at the prospect of having one in his own nephew; so he evaded the 
question, and kept his papers out of sight, but, in his own study, 
returned with redoubled ardor to his occupation, made all the 
sweeter from having to be pursued by stealth. As his work grew, 
and he felt within him the wonderful power of creative genius 
strengthening, day by day, his love for his art increased tenfold. It 
was with Philip no wish for fame, no feverish desire to be heard of, 
but the mere delight of creating, which impelled him to write; and 
with extraordinary rapidity the book proceeded. Full of faults it 
was, both of diction and composition; but with frequent touches of 
pure pathos, vigorous conception, and a shrewd and caustic wit, 
which bespoke the early dawnings of no common mind. At length 
he finished it. One summer midnight he wrote the last line; and 
then, for the first time, he felt that he had succeeded. Although 
no eye but his own had ever read a word of his writings, something 
within him said that his was not like the generality of books, and 
that he was to be one of the few who rise apart from the common 
leaven of humanity. He extinguished his little lamp, and, throwing- 
open his window, walked out upon the balcony. 

The summer night, with its thousand voluptuous odors— the soft, 
warm air — the deep sky above — and the stars, those mysterious 
types of immortality, which seem, in every deep emotion, to have 
kindly sympathy with the heart of man — all harmonized with his 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


31 


own happy feelings. Nature seemed bidding him welcome among 
the poet-band, who alone interpret her rightly, and are her apostles 
to the weary children of the world. He remained long, building a 
hundred bright dreams for the future, those first visions of fame than 
which the hopes of love are not sweeter — and when he at length re- 
tired to rest, he slept not; for now other and more practical thoughts 
arose upon his niind. 

How should his first work appear before the world? — should he 
publish anonymously, and unknown to his uncle, trusting merely to 
his own merit for success? At first, he liked the idea, but then his 
heart revolted against even a temporary concealment from Miles; 
he thought of the old man’s disappointment at his Harrow failures, 
and felt he should confide his secret to him, and let him participate 
with him in his hopes and triumphs. Then, again, he thought of 
his uncle’s sarcastic remarks about authors of fiction — “ trashy rub- 
bish,” as he called novels; and so the hours passed, in a conflict of 
opposing plans, until daybreak, when he rose to read and retouch 
portions of his work. When he came down to breakfast, next 
morning, his heavy eyes bore ample testimony to the way in which 
he had passed the night. He had decided to broach the subject at 
once; and his manner was constrained, as he seated himself and be- 
gan his breakfast, without knowing what he was about. 

Miles eyed him sharply; he had watched Philip much of late. His 
abstraction, his late hours, his pale cheek, had not escaped his no- 
tice; and a suspicion had arisen, the bare thought of which filled 
him with horror — the boy must have fallen in love. Of course, he 
looked forward, some day, to his marrying a woman with rank or 
money; but of love, or youthful romance, he had almost a greater 
horror than of poverty, and he was resolved to cure all such non- 
sense in its beginning. He had never known a similar weakness 
himself, and classed it with measles, and other childish disorders, 
that must be gone through. He onty wished his nephew had had 
the good grace to keep clear of the contagion. 

” What ails you, Phil? — with your ghostly white face — helping 
yourself three times to sugar, and crumbling your bread all over the 
table-cloth — do you hear me, sir?” 

‘‘Yes, sir,” said Philip, looking very guilty; “ I— the fact is — 
I—” 

‘‘Oh, yes, it is all coming!” groaned Miles, internally; then he 
added aloud, with sarcastic politeness — “ Pray take your time, 
nephew; I am in no hurry.” 


32 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


“ I fear you will not be pleased, uncle. I should have told you 
sooner, but — ” 

“ But what, sir?” interrupted Mr. Earnscliffe, angrily. “ I know 
the meaning of your hesitation, and your blushes, and your mod- 
esty. Tell me the woman’s name, you love-sick young idiot, at 
once, and have done with it.” 

“ The woman’s name!” said Philip, looking up in amazement, 
and with his face exceedingly red. ' ' It has nothing to do with any 
woman in the world. I have written a book, sir,” bringing out the 
last words with an effort. 

Miles heaved a colossal sigh of relief; he drank an entire cup of 
tea — buttered some toast — looked Philip full in the face — and then 
went into a hearty fit of laughter. ” So you have written a book? 
oh!”. 

“Yes, sir. I am glad to see you so amused,” Philip had already 
too much of the author in him not to feel offended at the way his 
important ao nouncement was received. 

“ A book — ho! ho! — don’t be angry; and what are you going to 
do with it?” 

“ Publish it,” he returned shortly. 

“ Well, I suppose, at your age, you must do something ridicu- 
lous: and it is so infinitely better than the other thing that I feel act- 
ually relieved. But a book— well — what is it all about?” 

“ Perhaps you would like to hear some of it?” replied Philip — he 
could not long be angry with his uncle — ‘ ‘ 1 should be glad to read 
you some of my scenes. ’ ’ 

“ Is it in verse? No. Well, that is a comfort. A novel, I sup- 
pose? I thought so. I am an excellent judge of that valuable class 
of works, and shall be happy to give you my criticism. We will 
publish it by all means (without our name, if you please); and I 
dare say our first success will be such as to make us leave book- 
writing alone for the future.” 

And in this cheerful strain Miles finished his breakfast. He loved 
Philip deeply, but it was not in his power to refrain from saying 
spiteful things, even to him; and looking upon him with all his 
good looks and noble qualities, as no genius — there was really, to 
him, something quite ludicrous in this new idea of authorship. 

“ I shall be in the library at eleven, punctually, for the reading, 
Phil,” he said, as they parted. “ Bring the shortest chapters.” 

Philip went sadly to his own room. He was very young; and his 
uncle’s sarcastic manner had fallen like a pall upon all his bright 
hopes. 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE. 


33 


“Yes/' he thought, “ I dare say he is right. I have no real gen- 
ius; and the world will think so, too.” He took his manuscript in 
his hand, and turned the leaves over with a feeling of disgust. 
“ And all this, that only last night I thought was to live forever, is, 
perhaps, worthless nonsense.” And he began, bitterly, to read a 
passage aloud. But, even as he did so, the feeling under which 
that very passage was written — a description of genius slowly con- 
quering difficulties, and rising above this world to another — returned 
to him, and his own words became his comforters. “ I ham genius!” 
he exclaimed, aloud. “ I know — I feel it. My uncle has not heard 
any of my writings yet; and, even when he has, and if he judges ill 
of it, it shall not alter me. I must succeed.” He laid down the 
manuscript; and walking up and down the room, waited impatient- 
ly for the appointed hour, when he descended— his work under his 
arm— to the library. His uncle was already there. 

“ Heaven help me!” he exclaimed, half to himself, but, of couree, 
meaning Philip to hear; “ I expected one, or, at most, two, quires of 
foolscap, and, behold! as much paper as goes to a family Bible. ” 
Then he added, aloud-»-“ Well, how much are we to gel through at 
one sitting?” 

“ As much or as little as you like,” replied Philip, laughing; “ I 
will read you a scene here and there; and when you are tired you 
can tell me.” 

“ Don’t fear. I shall not forget that,” was the answer, as Philip 
seated himself at the table. 

Who does not remember the nervous, choking sensation in the 
throat when one was about to read one’s first composition to a rela- 
tion? no after ordeal among editors and publishers can ever come up 
to it. He arranged his papers — turned, and returned them, to find 
an effective part— and then glanced at Miles. He was comfortably 
seated in his easy-chair, by the open window — his hands folded over 
his ample waistcoat, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, with an 
expression of mock resignation, very trying to a young author. His 
feet were outstretched in an attitude of excessive ease; and over his 
head he had thrown a large silk handkerchief — his usual prelude to 
falling asleep. 

“ Are you ready, uncle?” 

“ Quite, Philip — the day is hot— and if I should go to sleep, you 
must wake me, and not be offended!” 

And, at length, after clearing his throat twice, the boy began. 
Miles expected a great deal of nonsense about love and sentiment; 

but Philip knew his taste too well to choose such scenes, even had 
2 


34 


PHILIP ElRHSCLIFPE. 


there been much about love in his work, which there was not. He 
selected a portion of the book where the workings of an erring, but 
originally noble nature, were developed; and there was a vigor and 
truthfulness in the way this character was brought out, of which 
Miles, who had seen so much of life, was fully able to judge; for, 
although he knew nothing of books, he was well versed in the 
darker parts of human nature. The description was one of a youth 
who, by slow and gradual stages becomes a gambler; for years 
plays, as men term it, with honor; and, at length, in a moment of 
uncontrollable temptation, makes another downward transition, and 
is a felon. Then he analyzed, at some length, the passion which 
had led the youth on into crime, and painted minutely its terrible 
pleasures and irresistible fascinations. A passage or two may be 
quoted, as giving some idea of the general style. 

“The love of gambling,” he read, “is more intense than was 
ever the love for woman; more intoxicating, more fervid, and act- 
ually, in all its deeds of self-abnegation, more heroic. With the 
mere vile end of gold for the reward, what blind and boundless sac- 
rifice, what changeless courage, what unfaijing ardor is evinced in 
the pursuit! The true gambler conquers or falls, with the coldness 
of a stoic; passing, in an hour, from the highest to the lowest grades 
of society, without a change of features. Still, hanging over the 
green cloth, where the demon of play enchains him, he experiences 
in one night every vicissitude of our life. First king, then slave, 
he leaps over, in one bound, the enormous space that separates 
these two men in the scale of human existence. What will he be 
when he lea\^es this fevered den, a prince or a beggared outcast? 
weighed down with countless gold, or despoiled of the last poor gem 
which glitters on his hand? He knows not — he scarcely cares. For, 
after all, it is not the lust of gold which chains him to his consum- 
ing life. It is the loathing of repose, and love of the fierce excite- 
ment caused by these eternal gains and losses. Gold becomes his 
life — his mistress— his one desire — his avenging fiend — his god: and 
yet it is not gold for its own sake that he covets. This ceaseless 
combat for a shadow, no sooner caught than it again eludes his 
grasp, and which he loses almost with pleasure, that he may re- 
commence the struggle, is to him, at length, as the very breath of 
his nostrils. In time he has no other life but this life; every softer 
feeling of his nature is sacrificed to the infernal fever that consumes 
him. Love, self-esteem, friendship — even the blandishments of 
mere sensual pleasure — what are they to him, whose delight it is to 
make his own heaii; throb with agony, his blood boil, his brain reel 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


35 


madly; who throws his life, his fortune, his honor away at one 
throw of the diee, or risks them, piece by piece, in a slower and 
more exquisite torture? What are the excitements of our life to 
him? puerile and childish. 

The ocean could as soon sink into eternal calm, the eagle be 
happy without wings, as he return to the peaceful monotony of 
common existence. Oh! what patriots would have lived for their 
country alone — what lovers have sacrificed their life and honor for 
their mistress, if the same fire had ever burned in their breasts 
which lights up the hollow eye of the gambler!” 

Philip went on reading several pages; at length he stopped, and 
stole a glance at his uncle. He was not asleep; his eyes were fixed 
intently upon the boy’s face, his head bent forward in a listening 
attitude, and the handkerchief lying unheeded upon the floor. 

“ Are you tired, uncle?” 

‘‘Ho.” 

“ Shall I go on?” 

“ No. Philip, tell me one thing, and truly; how did you learn 
all you have just read to me? where did you get your experience of 
a gambler’s life and feelings? From what you have read— or — but 
no, it is impossible that you could have seen such things at your 
age.” 

“Uncle,” returned Philip, quietly, “I cannot tell you how I 
learn anything that I write; as you say, it can not be from my own 
experience, and I have read so few novels that I do not think I have 
• borrowed much from them. I suppose, in this case, it must be 
l)artly from what I have read and heard, but much more from im- 
agining what must be the state of a man’s mind under one power- 
ful and all-engrossing passion. Further than this, I can not explain 
how' or why I have written.” 

Miles looked into the frank young face, and believed him. He 
was shrewd, and not without ability, of a certain kind, himself, 
and, though Philip’s was of a higher and very different order, he 
was able to recognize the youth’s dawning talent at once. But he 
paid him few compliments. 

“ I do not deny, Philip, that I am altogether surprised at what I 
have heard of your writing. You shall begin this evening, and 
read the whole work to me through. Afterward, I suppose you 
will publish it. Well, I never thought you would end in being an 
author.” 

The readings were long, often extending until after midnight — 
for old Miles grew more interested in the plot than he acknowledged 


36 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


— and, when it was finished, he was as anxious as Philip about the 
publication, adding, at last— “ and, I believe, after all, it may be as 
well to publish it under your own name.” 

In a lew weeks the book was in the press. 

Philip had small difiiculty to contend with at the commencement 
of his literary career. Had he been an ordinary youth of eighteen, 
struggling on without friends or fortune, his talents would have 
undoubtedly remained the same, but his success might have been 
different — I mean the success of his first work, not his ultimate 
fame as an author — and therein lies a great distinction. The rugged 
path to be toiled up in early youth— the neglect at first— the harsh 
criticism— the slowly dawning fame, are the very circumstances 
which have braced up and fostered many a youthful genius; while, 
on the other hand, there is scarcely a more perilous test of real 
worth, than for a first work to be brought out under all the acci- 
dental advantages of a name and fortune, excellent publishers, and 
friendly critics. But the result at the time is unquestionably far 
pleasanter. 

At eighteen, Philip found himself a successful author — a lion in 
London society; with as great a share of adulation, and as many 
pretty women ready to be in love with him, as might have turned 
many an older head. He was naturally no coxcomb, and became as 
little one as was possible; but no handsome young author, courted 
as much as he was, could remain long free from the pernicious 
effects of such a life; one of the greatest evils of which was, that his 
mind, instead of the quiet and repose necessary after the feverish 
haste in which his first book was written, was kept in a constant 
whirl of excitement, when it should have been acquiring new and 
healthy vigor for its next labors. At the end of another year, how- 
ever, he again published. The success of the work was great — per- 
haps, greater than had been the former one — but it was a false 
success this time— that of society. In the world the book was indis- 
criminately praised, its faults, which were many, were unnoticed, 
and the really true and beautiful parts overlooked. Only a few 
grave critics were more sparing in their praises than before; and 
hinted that if the third work of the young author were again as in- 
trinsically poorer, as was this one compared to the first, his literary 
career would be over. Philip felt the truth of these remarks deeply, 
and resolved to profit by them, and withdrew himself awhile from 
the noisy world of London, ere he again attempted to compose. 

Miles gladly seconded his intention; for all Philip’s success and 
engagenicnts had naturally deprived his uncle of much of his so* 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


37 


ciety, and they were both looking forward, with pleasure, to spend- 
ing some quiet months at a place of Mr. Earnscliffe’s, far away in 
the north of England, when a new train of events arose, which 
altered their plans, and colored the whole of Philip’s after life. 

When he again wrote, it was to be under very different circum- 
stances. 


CHAPTER V. 

Philip Earnscliffe was already looked upon as one of the best 
partis in London. Joined to all his own attractions, he was the ac- 
knowledged heir of one of the richest men in England; and many a 
wily mother and innocent daughter had combined their united snares 
around him. But Philip, although he had had a dozen admirations, 
had never fallen in love. Perhaps he had as yet had no time to do 
so; or, more likely, he had been thinking too much of himself to 
bestow undivided attention upon any other object. However this 
might be, he only laughed, when his uncle used to ask him, at 
breakfast, “ What silly face he had become enamored of the evening 
before?” — and always said he should have no time to think of 
marrying, for the next ten years, at least. He little knew how near 
his fate was upon him. 

One of the houses at which he was the most intimate was that of 
Lord St. Leger, his maternal uncle. The noble lord was himself as 
disagreeable a person as you will often meet with, and possessed 
scarcely an idea beyond his own dignity and the dice-box, while of 
principle he was most singularly and entirely void. His wife was 
not a whit inferior to himself in coldness of heart — or, rather, in the 
complete absence of what common people term natural affection. 
She had, however, a fair, kindly face — a plausible manner — a soft 
voice, and was generally spoken of as a very charming woman in- 
deed. Few claims to popularity go deeper. 

They had only one child, a daughter; and Lady Clara St. Leger 
inherited many of the qualities of both her parents — although these 
were, of course, somewhat glossed over by her youth and personal 
attractions. She was several years older than Philip, and had 
already attained the age of five-and-twenty — an age at which most 
girls, in her position, would have been some years married. But, 
although she had had several offers, and one lover, none of her suit- 
ors had been considered eligible, either by herself or her parents. 
Time wore on, however, and every year Lord St. Leger became 
more anxious for his daughter to marry a wealthy man. Beneath 


38 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIPPE. 


his cold, white, unmeaning face, lurked the fire of many an evil 
passion; and the gambling- table had long been making fearful in- 
roads upon a fortune already crippled with youthful extravagance. 

Lady St. Leger was equally desirous that Clara should make a 
distinguished nlarriage; but she had always looked less to mere 
money than to high birth and position, until one day, when her hus- 
band abruptly acquainted her with the darkening state of his own 
affairs, adding, coarsely, “ and it would be well, madame, for you 
to make a last effort to marry your daughter, or I reckon she will 
have little chance soon of finding a husband at all. Unless some- 
thing very unforeseen occurs, you may look forward, in the course 
of the present year, to being the wife of a beggar.’* Lady St. Leger 
pondered deeply over this fearful intelligence — the most fearful that 
can be conceived to a heartless woman of the world. The prospect 
of poverty was, to her, the prospect of disgrace, loss of position, in- 
fluence in society — all that constituted her life. Without domestic 
affections, resources in herself, or religion, she looked upon a beg- 
gared future as far worse than death itself; and, with a desperate 
determination, she resolved to marry Clara at once. She felt that 
upon that alone hung their last chance. But to whom? She turned 
over in her mind all the men who had ever shown her daughter 
any attention, and even those who had not; and as, one by one, the 
most eligible rose before her, she felt that Clara, at five-and-twenty, 
had small prospect of succeeding where she had failed at eighteen : 
she was getting somewhat thin, of late, and had not too many part- 
ners at balls during the present season. Suddenly a new thought 
flashed across Lady St. Leger; she half smiled, and deliberated long 
— but the deliberation seemed, at last, favorable, and her thin lips 
parted disdainfully, as she muttered aloud, “ Well, I suppose it 
must be so; I must marry my daughter ta young Earnscliffe.” 

Later in the day she sought for Clara, and found her alone in the 
drawing-room. She was neither working nor reading, but sitting in 
the twilight, with her eyes fixed upon the fire, and her hands lying 
listlessly in her lap. She was paler even than usual, and her long 
light hair, thrown baek from her face, revealed lines which had 
already lost the rounded contour of early youth. Lady St. Leger 
looked at her for a few seconds, and then, approaching noiselessly, 
laid her hand on her shoulder. 

“Clara!” 

. “Yes, mother.” 

She never turned her head. 

“ What are you thinking of, child, sitting alone in the dark?” 


X 


39 


PHILIP EABKSCLIPPE. 

I was thinking of Harry, mother.” 

“ Of Harry!” returned the other, with cold contempt. ‘‘ Well, I 
should not have expected that my daughter would think of Harry 
Douglas again, after the lapse of eight years. A poor penniless 
young sailor, who presumed to talk to you of marriage.” 

“ Ay, is it not ridiculous?” she replied, with a bitter laugh. 
‘'Fori refused him — at your bidding, certainly, but also through 
my own pride. And for eight years — you remember rightly, 
mother — I have planned, and plotted, and acted, in the hope of be- 
coming the wife of a dozen other men, and have not succeeded. 
And now — a worn and wearied woman — I can yet think of him and 
of my childhood, and shed tears for both, as I have done to-day. 
But I do not feel that I shall shed many more.” She clasped her 
hands upon her knees, bowed her head upon them, and was silent. 

“ Clara,” resumed her mother, after a pause, “ listen to me. You 
have been a dutiful daughter hitherto ” — she moved impatiently — 
“ and have never opposed my wishes. Kow, the very existence of 
your father and myself may depend upon you. Our affairs, it mat- 
tern not bow or why, are in the most desperate condition, and to 
your marriage alone can we look for help. If you were to marry a 
man of property, we might yet — ” 

“Well!” said Clara, suddenly looking up, “I understand you. 
Who is it to be? what happy man am I this time to try to win for 
my husband?” 

Her mother even was rather taken aback at her hard, cold man- 
ner, but she soon recovered her composure; and turning her face a 
little aside, answered quietly, “ Your cousin Philip.” 

“ Philip Earnscliffe?” 

“Yes.” 

“Mother, are you dreaming? Why should I marry that boy? 
Surely you do not care for his handsome face or genius?” she add- 
ed, with a sneer. 

“Clara, Philip’s uncle is the wealthiest commoner in England. 
His nephew is, certainly, only his presumptive heir; still, every 
chance is in his favor. Old Earnscliffe would probably make hand- 
some settlements; and, at all events, it is the best parti you have any 
chance of making, and he will be easily won.” 

“ He is not likely, with his poet’s fancies, to fall in love with me.” 

“ At twenty, a vain youth will fall in love with any woman who 
shows a preference for him. Leave everything to me, my darling; 
only act as I wish you, and in a few weeks you will be Miles Earns- 
cliffe ’s niece.” 


40 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


‘‘ And his wife. Well, as you will — his or another’s; it is all the 
same. Only one thing, mother — ^get it over as quickly as you can, 
and let me have as little to do with it as possible.” And once more 
she sunk into her old listless attitude. Her mother pressed a kiss 
upon her forehead, and then, quite delighted at Clara’s acquiescence, 
fluttered gayly out of the room. 

Thus was Philip’s marriage projected. 

Lady St. Leger was naturally a clever woman. Long experience 
in the world had given her an extensive knowledge of the foibles of 
liuman nature, and she had an inborn talent for scheming and 
maneuvering. It would not be interesting to the reader to follow 
her minutely in the way she plotted for Philip. The crowning scene 
of her endeavors it will be enough to relate. 

One day, about a week after the interview with her daughter, 
Philip was to dine with them alone. He frequently did so, partly 
on the score of relationship, partly because he rather liked his 
cousin’s society. In spite of her pale face and moodiness, there was 
something about her which interested him, although she was cer- 
tainly the last woman in the world with whom he could have fallen 
in love. In her calm, sensible conversation he found a pleasant con- 
trast to the blooming, exuberantly happy and excessively amiable 
young ladies he generally met with in the world. Clara rather liked 
him, too, in her cold way; and looking upon her cousin as one she 
would, at least, never be called upon to win, her manner with him 
had always been friendly and natural. 

Philip found Lady St. Leger alone in the drawing-room. She re- 
ceived him affectionately, and made many inquiries for his uncle; 
but, after these first customary greetings were over, he perceived 
that she was silent, and abstracted. Her face was averted from him, 
and occasionally she sighed, as if unconscious of his presence. 

“You are not well, I fear,” he said, kindly; “ or something has 
occurred to depress you.” 

She raised a little mass of deep lace to her eyes— that action being 
considered a symbol of feminine agitation— and was silent. Philip 
became interested, and pressed her for a reply. 

“Ah, Philip!” she cried, seizing his hand— her own was still 
white and soft as a girl’s; “ none but a mother can know how I 
suffer. I feel that it is imprudent, but I can not conceal it, even 
from you; the sad truth has broken upon me so suddenly. After 
watching the infancy of an only child, seeing her grow up to woman- 
liood, and never once in her life having breathed a reproving word 
to her; now, in the brightness of her youth, to know that she is pin- 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFPE. 


41 


ing, altering day by day. Oh, Philip! my heart will break under 
it!” and the lace was again in requisition. 

“ Is Clara— is my cousin ill?” he inquired, anxiously. 

“ Yes, she is ill, and with a worse malady than any bodily ail- 
ment. Philip, for some months I have perceived that she was 
restless and unsettled; she has cared less for society, her gay cheerful- 
ness has decreased ” (Philip never remembered her being very cheer- 
ful) — her cheeks have grown pale; and yet, when I have questioned 
her upon her health, she has always replied, ‘ she was well — quite 
well — quite happy. ’ But a mother is not so easily deceived. I have 
watched more closely every indication of her feelings, and, at length, 
only two days ago, an accident discovered to me my poor darling’s 
secret. Clara— oh, how can I tell you! you of all others!” (her voice 
sunk until it was scarcely audible) “ my child is the victim of a deep 
— and too much, I fear, unreturned — attachment.” 

“ Good heavens! how little I should have supposed it possible. 
Believe me, dear Lady St. Leger, I fully sympathize with you in 
your anxiety; but what man can be insensible to the preference of 
so gentle a being as Clara?” 

Philip had not the slightest idea which way his afflicted relative 
was drifting. He only felt real concern at Lady St. Leger’s com- 
munication, not unmixed with astonishment that she had selected 
him for a confidant on such a very delicate subject as her daughter’s 
unrequited love; while the lady’s inward reflection was, “ Stupid 
creature! I shall have to tell him in so many words.” 

“ I can not tell you more; perhaps I have already said too much. 
I believe it would kill my poor child if she thought I had revealed 
her secret — and to you; for, once, when I remarked upon her altered 
looks, and said I must ask you to cheer her with some of your bright 
poetic thoughts, she exclaimed, ‘ Hot him, mother! — not one word 
to my cousin, or I shall die!’ and her very lips turned ashy pale. 
Oh, Philip! it was then that I first suspected the cruel truth. But 
hush! here she comes!” — and at that moment the door slowly 
opened, and Clara entered. She was dressed in white, with only a 
bouquet of natural moss-roses in her bosom, and looked younger 
and fresher than usual — with her long pale hair falling in a cloud 
upon her transparently fair neck, and a somewhat heightened color 
in her face. When she saw her mother and Philip alone together, 
the color deepened to a crimson blush, and she averted lier head as 
they shook hands. 

The last words of Lady St. Leger had caused an extremely pain- 
ful sensation to Philip; and Clara’s evident embarrassment at seeing 


42 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


him only confirmed his half-formed fear, that he was the object of 
her attachment. Although she was not a girl he could love, she was 
gentle, and certainly pretty; and he had always felt a kind of pity 
for her companionless life. Nothing could have given him more 
sincere pain than the idea which had been forced upon his mind; 
and he allowed Lady St. Leger to talk on without reply, while he 
became as silent and embarrassed as his cousin. Lord St. Leger, 
however, soon entered, and dinner was announced, Lady St. Leger 
whispering to him as he handed her to the dining-room, “ Not a 
word — not a look — as you value my poor darling’s happiness.” 

The meal passed off slowly. Lord St. Leger was out of temper, 
as usual, and spoke little. Clara was perfectly silent; and although 
Lady St. Leger and Philip exerted themselves to talk, their conversa- 
tion was evidently constrained. Soon after the ladies had left the 
table, his uncle begged Philip to excuse him, saying he had an en- 
gagement which obliged his attendance; so Earnscliffe was com- 
pelled to join his aunt and cousin in the drawing-room. But he 
had a gloomy feeling — a sort of presentiment of evil — upon his 
spirits, and he would much sooner have left the house. He found 
Clara alone. She was seated by a small table, at the further end 
of the room, apparently intent upon the book she was reading. As 
he approached, his heart fluttered slightly at seeing it was one of his 
own works. He was too young to be insensible to the attachment 
of any woman; and his cousin had never appeared to him so inter- 
esting before. 

“I wish you had a better book to study, Clara, ” he said with 
rather a forced smile. 

She turned and looked at him — that fixed, steady look which, had 
he lived longer, he might have known no woman could bestow upon 
the man she loved — and again a deep, painful blush overspread her 
face, coloring even her neck and arms. How should he know that it 
was a blush of burning shame? There was but one way to interpret 
her confusion after the self- confession of her mother; and it was an 
interpretation too fiattering to his vanity to be doubted. She loved 
him! Poor Philip felt himself getting rather confused, too, and 
seated himself quite close to her, without knowing exactly what he 
was about. 

Clara bent over her book again, and sighed — no acted sigh. What 
ever her emotion at that moment, it was real, although it arose not 
from love to her cousin. She felt that her mother had spoken; and 
all the lingering pride of her girlhood was warring against the 
worldly obedience to which she had been trained. When she looked 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIPPE. 


43 


in Philip’s bright young face, too, she felt more than her usual dis- 
gust at the part she was acting. This time she was not trying to 
win a mere man of the world, but to deceive a frank and truthful 
nature. She remembered him as the one friend she had ever pos- 
sessed since her childhood; and even now, the thought of speaking 
openly to him, and saving them both, struggled in her bosom. 

“You are ill, dear Clara — your color changes every minute!” He 
took her hand, and was shocked at the clammy, death-like touch. 

“ Not ill, Philip. I am ill in mind only. Cousin ” (her cheeks 
were again on fire), “I fear my mother has spoken to you — ^my 
mother—” 

But her proud lip could not speak those humiliating words, and 
quivered with agitation as she vainly tried to continue. 

Unhappily for himself, poor Philip was too generous to allow her 
to do so. He refiected not that on a few words of his the after-col- 
oring of his whole life might depend; and that, in saving her a pass- 
ing humiliation, he was about to sacrifice himself forever, without 
one warmer feeling than pity in his heart. He only saw a broken- 
hearted girl trying, with pale, trembling lips, to exonerate herself in 
his eyes for having given him her love unasked, and all the noblest 
feelings of his nature were awakened. Throwing his arms around 
her, he whispered, before she could speak another word, ‘ ‘ Oh, Clara, 
confide all your sorrow to me — for I love you!” 

She had not then the principle to withdraw, though she shud- 
dered in his embrace; and the recollection of the warm love she had 
once known for Harry Douglas came like a mockery to her, even at 
that moment, when, with a selfish, unbeating heart, she was about 
to give herself for life to another. Her cold lips were pressed unre- 
sistingly to Philip’s, and he poured forth passionate words which, 
in the excitement of the moment, he actually himself believed were 
genuine. 

When Lady St. Leger entered the room, after a reasonably long 
time had elapsed, her delighted eyes beheld them standing together 
near the fire, Clara’s face deeply flushed, and her eyes cast down, 
and her companion speaking in low but animated tones, with her 
hand clasped in his. 

It was late that evening when Philip found himself on his way 
home, excessively bewildered at all that had passed, and the accepted 
suitor of Lord St. Leger ’s daughter. 


44 


PHILIP EAENSCLIPFE. 




CHAPTER VI. 

It would be difficult to describe Mr. Earnscliffe’s feelings on 
hearing of Philip’s sudden engagement to his cousin. Of course he 
flew into a great passion at first, and refused point-blank to give his 
consent, saying, “ the boy had been decoyed, inveigled, taken in.” 
But this he would have considered it a sort of duty to do, whatever 
project of marriage had been formed by his nephew without his own 
advice. On cooling down, and reflecting more calmly, however, the 
leaning weakness of the old man’s nature was immensely flattered at 
the idea of the St. Legers — the proudest people amongst the whole 
English nobility — catching eagerly at Jiis heir. It had always been 
his secret hope that Philip would one day marry into a noble family, 
and thus unite in his posterity his own hardly earned wealth with 
aristocratic blood. As he thought over it he became gradually more 
reconciled to his nephew marrying so young, and at length grew 
really friendly to the match, although he made himself thoroughly 
disagreeable to everybody, long after he had, in his own mind, deter- 
mined to consent. Lady St. Leger’s expectations, however, of 
handsome settlements on the part of old Miles, were grievously dis- 
appointed. A few days after he had given his tardy consent to the 
engagement, Philip hinted delicately that it was probable his future 
father-in-law would be desirous of an interview, on business, with 
him. 

Then, let him come here, Phil! I am quite ready to tell him 
my intentions toward you; and I hope his daughter’s prospects are 
one tenth part as good as your own — though I much doubt it. ’ ’ 

Philip thought it would be well for his uncle to wait upon Lord 
St. Leger — Miles did not. 

“ Not a bit of it — it is all their doing! They want to marry into 
my family, not I into theirs. You know,” he added, maliciously, 

the proposal was not made in my drawing-room, after dinner. 
Don’t distress yourself, Phil; your noble father-in-law will find out 
his way to me, when money is to be talked of, without our assist- 
ance.” 

And he was right. Two days afterward, the proudest gentleman 
in England was standing nervously in old Miles’s study for half an 
hour, waiting to see him, while Miles finished his luncheon. 

“Don’t fret yourself, Phil,” he remarked, as he leisurely rose 
from the table; “ my lord has had patience, I have no doubt.” 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


45 


Wlien Le entered tlie study, Lord St. Leger advanced warmly to 
meet him. “ My dear sir — ’’ 

How are you? Pray sit down, and we will at once begin the 
business you have come upon.” 

“ Your health, my dear Mr. Earnscliffe?” 

‘ ‘ Is excellent, my lord. I am as clear in the head as I was fifty 
years ago, when I started life the lowest clerk in a merchant’s office. 
You are aware that I am a self-made man, Lord St. Leger. With- 
out birth, connection, or any advantages but my own brain and per- 
severance, I became what I am. Pray seat yourself, and we will 
enter into accounts at once. As you are the young lady’s father, 
and 1 am only Philip’s uncle, you will, perhaps, first have the good- 
ness to state the settlements you propose making upon your daugh- 
ter, and I will then tell you my own intentions toward my nephew.” 

Lord St. Leger’s face had grown several shades more sallow than 
even its usual cadaverous hue, during Miles Earnscliife’s little 
speech. The old merchant, with spiteful pleasure, had purposely 
recalled his own humble origin, and made his noble companion feel, 
to the full, the true position in which they stood to each other. It 
was with an immense effort that he swallowed his proud indigna- 
tion, and brought out a few commonplace remarks — very courteous 
ones, but not all in answer to Miles’s question. 

‘'But the figure, my lord?” he said, sharply, drawing an im- 
mense sheet of blue paper before him, and placing his pen in the 
extreme left hand corner, as though the whole page would be re- 
quired to note down Lord St. Leger’s magnificent intentions. “I 
am a plain man, as you know; and, though I have greatly objected 
to the whole thing — thinking Phil, with his unsettled position ‘and 
love of society, far too young, and unsteady, my lord, to marry — 
yet, as everybody else seems bent upon it, and the poor boy feels 
his honor engaged — may I trouble you to pass the ink? — thank you 
— feels his honor engaged — why, I have given my consent. And 
the only thing now is for you and me to decide upon the settlements, 
and let them marry; and, considering my objections to the engage- 
ment from the first, I think I am now acting generously in meeting 
you half-way about the rnoney.” 

Lord St. Leger bowed and smiled. He was bland and courteous, 
made vague promises, and commented largely^upon the other’s well- 
known riches and generosity; but it was all of no avail. Nothing 
led Miles for one moment from their actual business; and, after his 
lordship’s most flattering speeches, and graceful perorations, he in- 


46 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


variably returned to the original question — “ Then what amount 
will you settle upon your daughter?” 

At length, after as many wily turns and fine sounding phrases, 
“ signifying nothing,” as would have done credit to a Vienna note, 
Lord St. Leger was beaten. Brought to the actual point — but still 
with an attempt at dignity — the answer came out. “ In the present 
state of the country — the difficulty of getting rents — and some slight 
embarrassments of his own, which would, he trusted, soon be over, 
he could give his daughter — nothing. ’ ’ 

“Very well, my lord,” said Miles, with one of his pleasantest 
smiles, and carefully replacing his unsullied paper in a portfolio; 
“ then I believe our conversation is at an end. I had proposed to 
settle the same sum as yourself upon your daughter; I will do so 
now, and it rests with you that the amount is so small. With re- 
gard to my nephew, I have long since made my will, and at my 
death he will inherit all my property. His marriage — should the pro- 
jected union still be carried out — will not alter my intentions toward 
him, poor fellow! and during my life-time I shall allow him what I 
consider sufficient — ^not more. It is well that he should also depend 
upon his own exertions. ’ ^ 

Lord St. Leger rose, his face livid with rage at his utter failure, 
but his presence of mind still not forsaking him. At that moment 
of supreme disappointment, he felt that it were better to marry his 
daughter to Philip, although without settlements, than not to marry 
her at all; and, taking Earnscliffe’s hand, he exi^ressed with digni- 
fied composure his regret that he was not able to act as he himself 
wished on the solemn occasion of his only child’s marriage, thank- 
ing him at the same time for his generous intention of making set- 
tlements equivalent to his own upon Clara. And so, with still a 
calm exterior, but in his bosom a very hell of hatred toward his 
future connections, he left the room. 

“ I knew how it would be,” muttered Miles, after he was gone. 
“ They are selling their nobility for money — and poor Philip is just 
to be thrown in, as the least important part of the bargain. Hang 
the fellow! with his white, deceitful face, and glib words. He was 
as difficult to be brought to speak as an attorney. And his prom- 
ises, and his grand words, and his inquiries about my health— m\»‘ 
health! ho, ho! when he would like to see me drop down dead on 
the wedding day! However, I will say one thing for him — he be- 
haved like a gentleman.” 

It is not necessary to speak much of Philip’s courtship. Having 
got into the entanglement, he tried hard to make himself believe 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


47 


that he had done so wisely, and of his own free will. He conse- 
quently endeavored to be in love; and then, finding the task some- 
what tedious, only wished the whole thing were over. He was 
young and hopeful, and life for him held out so wide a field of am- 
bition, he saw before him suclblong years of success in the world, 
that his marriage did not appear an all-important event. He had 
never felt anything of love beyond mere boyish fancies, or that 
vague yearning for ideal beauty, which is part of a poet’s tempera- 
ment; and any idea of domestic happiness had never crossed his 
mind. He was fond of society where he shone supreme — those re- 
fined circles of the great London world, to which he had universal 
entree, but he also delighted— and who does not at twenty?— in an- 
other society, far more brilliant and less restrained, that of artists 
and actors — those delightful 'getits sougers after the opera, where 
all was mirth and laughter,' and of which he had not yet learned to 
weary; the rehearsals, the pretty faces that smiled upon him; in 
short, all the mimic but exciting life of the greenroom. It would 
have taken a passionate lo^e, a most sweet and winning wife to con- 
vert Philip EarnsclifCe, at twenty, into a domestic husband. And 
he married Lady Clara St. Leger. The preliminaries of the mar- 
riage were speedily got over. There was no reluctance of the bride, 
no tearful wishes for delay on the part of the bride’s mother; and 
the bridegroom, if not ardent about his marriage, appeared extreme- 
ly anxious for the termination of his courtship. Mr. Earnscliife, 
after all, made the young couple a handsome allowance, and they 
took a furnished house in Park Lane for the coming season. 

By tacit consent neither of them spoke of any tour after their 
marriage. Their honey-moon was to be passed at the estate in 
Yorkshire, whither Miles and Philip had talked of going previous 
to his engagement, and afterward they were immediately to return 
to London. Philip seemed suddenly to have given up all his inten- 
tions of solitude and improvement, and to think more of society 
than ever; and Clara remained passive whatever was planned for 
the future. 

The wedding-day came, and they were married. Lord and Lady 
St. Leger showed the proper amount of feeling at the touching 
event, although the bride was cold and tearless. There was a pro- 
fusion of silver and orange fiowers, school- children with baskets of 
fady- looking green leaves, and pretty bride-maids, and meaningless 
young men, and pompous old relations. Speeches were made and 
healths drank; and the bride’s mother kissed the bridegroom, who 
appeared uneasy and nervous, as though he were just beginning to 


48 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


realize the meaning of what he had been about. Old Miles, in a 
blue coat and gilt buttons of antique workmanship, looked exceed- 
ingly out of his place, and made sarcastic remarks to everybody. 
And so the happy morning went off; and the bridal pair departed, 
and the guests after them; and the father and mother were left 
alone, to think over their daughter’s marriage. Miles drove back to 
his house about ten miles from town — the house in which he had 
first received little Philip — and the remainder of the day hung heav- 
ily upon him. He walked about his gardens with less interest than 
usual, and at six he sat down to his lonely dinner. It was, of course, 
a thing of frequent occurrence for him to dine alone, but then he al- 
ways knew that Philip was enjoying himself in the world, and 
thought of all the good stories he would tell him at breakfast next 
morning; for Philip knew the pleasure this gave his uncle, and 
never failed in being punctual at the morning meal. How it was 
different; his life was again to be lonely, and forever. Philip might 
come as his guest — but that was all; he was married, and every 
other tie would be broken. 

After dinner he sat long by the fire; and, as he watched the red 
logs sparkle, his memory recalled that winter evening when the lit- 
tle bright-haired child first appeared at his lonely hearth. He traced 
all his young life since then; his childhood, which had made the 
silent house so joyous with his shouts, and laughter, and thousand 
affectionate, winning ways; his holidays, made happy at Christmas 
with his skating and sledging, and noisy in-door games; even hap- 
pier at midsummer, when Miles took him to the sea-side, and used 
to sit on the beach, watching the boy swimming, delighted, over the 
smooth summer sea. Then he thought of the unexpected outbreak 
of Philip’s genius — his success in the world — his own gratified pride 
in his nephew’s distinction; and he felt he had never known how 
much he loved him till now. 

‘'And I let him marry that idiot’s pale-faced daughter! ” he ex- 
claimed, bitterly, aloud, “ for her rank and birth, as though they 
would make his home happy, when I might have prevented the 
whole thing by one word of disinheriting him. Married, and not 
yet one-and-twenty, my poor boy!” 

He remained long looking vacantly at the fire; and at length tears 
gathered slowly in the old man’s eyes. They were the only ones 
shed on Philip’s wedding-day. 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE. 


49 


CHAPTEK VII. 

Alone in the country, in the depth of winter, Philip found his 
honey-moon amply long enough to awaken him to a true sense of 
the error he had committed. He soon saw that he had allowed 
himself to be drawn into a marriage with a woman to whom he was 
indifferent; while, before he had been married many days, doubts 
had already dawned upon his mind as to the real motive of Clara in 
becoming his wife. When he was relieved from the necessity of 
constantly acting love himself, he had time to observe her more 
closely; and he was forced to admit that her cheeks were just as 
pale, her spirits as dull, now that she was his wife, as they had been 
six weeks before, when her mother represented her as pining under 
a hopeless attachment. 

Was it possible, he asked himself, that she had acted with du- 
plicity, and married him without love, only because he was his 
uncle’s heir? The thought filled him with ineffable disgust. He 
was far too proud to recriminate or demand an explanation, so he 
remained silent; but, in these first days of married life — so rarely 
ruffled by suspicion — a feeling of estrangement had already risen in 
Plrilip’s heart toward his wife. Besides this, he was in the very 
brightness of life and youth; and there was something excessively 
irksome to him in Clara’s cold, silent companionship. For what 
had appeared gentleness in a cousin was very insipid in a wife. She 
could neither warm into admiration at his conversation— ^ which, to 
all others, had so rare a charm — nor share in his enthusiastic visions 
for the future. A monosyllable, a quickly fading smile, was her 
usual reply; and the bridegroom soon longed impatiently for the 
termination of those endless thirty days, which, according to the 
laws of English society, it is necessary for newly married persons to 
spend in banishment. 

“ Are you fond of the country, Clara?” he asked, the night be- 
fore their journey homeward, as the long winter evening passed 
slowly by. 

He had been reading— she gazing in the fire (it was a peculiarity 
of Lady Clara’s that she never worked); and a sufficiently long time 
had elapsed without either of them speaking a word. 

I, when I was quite young ” — how the expression jarred upon 
Philip’s ear— '‘I greatly preferred the country; I think, then, I 


50 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


should have liked to remain forever among the Highlands of Scot- 
land, which I happened to visit when I was about seventeen ” — her 
face grew soft, for a moment, at the recollection— “ but after that I 
returned to London; I was presented, and since, I have, of course, 
been so continually in society, that I have never had time to think 
of a country life; for, even in the country, at Christmas, one has as 
much gayety as in town. ’ * 

“ And now?” 

“ Now? Of course, you prefer being in London, do you not?” 

“ But for yourself?” 

” For myself, I am indifferent.” And the conversation closed. 

She was indifferent to almost everything now. With her mar- 
riage had ended even her old friendship for Philip; she knew well 
that he did not love her, and she could not forget the unworthy 
manner in which he had been won. It was a perpetual wound to 
her pride, and she cared not that her manner betrayed the coldness 
of her feelings; indeed, she preferred that her husband should no 
longer belie v^e her more attached to him* than she was in reality. It 
was a relief to both when they returned to London. The train ar- 
rived late in the evening, and Philip hailed the fog, and smoke, and 
Babel-sounds which greeted him, as so many familiar friends. He 
was quite in good spirits during dinner, and laughed and talked 
with all his old manner. They had found scores of invitations 
awaiting them; for himself, notes from his old acquaintances, tlie- 
atrical announcements, communications from his publishers; he 
seemed to have returned to life. 

“You look tired, Clara, after your journey,” he remarked, 
kindly, when they returned to the drawing-room, “and are not 
equal, probably, to the fatigue of going out ; otherwise there is a 
new opera to-night.” 

“ Shall you go?” she asked, with a faint indication of surprise. 

“ Well, dearest, I have so much news to hear, that I must just go 
down to the club. ’ ’ Although only married a month, a marital in- 
tuition made him feel that it was as well to sup^Dresss, “ And to the 
opera afterward. ” 

“ Then, good-night,” she answered, with abrupt coldness; “ I am 
tired, and shall retire to rest at once.” 

She left the room' without another word. One look of entreaty — 
if she had thrown her arms round his neck, and whispered, “ Ah! 
Philip, do not leave me so soon,” he would have stayed; but her 
cold, almost insulting manner of wishing him good-night, stung 
him deeply. 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


51 


“She wishes to treat me like a hoy was his thought; and he 
went off to his club. 

Clara heard the street-door shut loudly after him, while she was 
still slowly ascending the staircase. She felt really weary and sick 
at heart, and when she entered her room, did not ring for her maid. 
She wished to be alone, and seating herself before the dressing-table, 
she gazed long at the reflection of her own face in the glass; she 
looked pale, tired, and not youthful. 

“ And thus begins my new life!” she said, at length, aloud. 
“ Married to a mere boy, who took me from pity, and, after a 
month, leaves me alone to seek his former amusements on the first 
night of our return; without love in my own heart, and loathing 
myself for having married him; these are the conditions of my ex- 
istence — my prospects for the future. But you succeeded, mother; 
you have married me to Miles Earnscliffe’s heir.” 

She nerved herself proudly, and, turning from the glass, walked 
up and down the room, while her lips trembled, and occasionally 
her hands clinched involuntarily. Few who knew her in the world 
would have believed her capable of passionate emotion like this; but 
though worldly and selfish, she had still some of a woman’s deep- 
est feelings left. Little as she cared for her husband, his careless- 
ness to her, on the first evening of their return home, had aroused 
all her pride, and with it the never-dying thoughts of her first lover 
— that recollection which was the avenging ghost of the youth and 
love she had so pitilessly crushed in her own bosom. She saw her- 
self as she was — her ambitious plans successful, married to a man 
whom every girl in London bad been anxious to win; and then 
thought what she might have been, had she, eight years ago, fol- 
lowed the honest dictates of her heart. It was a bitter thought. 

Suddenly she paused in her hurried walk, and unlocked a case 
which stood upon the dressing-table. Within lay a perfect mass of 
jewels — diamonds, pearls, emeralds — the costly wedding-presents, 
mostly given her by her husband and his uncle. They only re- 
minded her that for them, and the wealth which bought them, she 
had married Philip; and she pushed them aside with disgust, paused 
a few seconds, and then touching, with a somewhat faltering hand, 
the spring of a hidden drawer, drew from it what appeared, from 
the care with which it was preserved, to be a treasured relic. It was 
only a little sprig of mountain heather, now colorless and withered 
with time, but worth more to the unhappy woman than a thousand 
such glittering heaps as lay before her. For it had been plucked 
by Harry Douglas on the first day he had ever spoken to her in 


52 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


love, ,in that lonely Highland glen, whose rocks and heath-covered 
hanks she had never been able to forget; and once more she heard 
the throstle singing, and the wild bee humming past her, as on that 
very summer morning. She looked long at it, with that eager re- 
calling look, such as a mother may bestow upon some relic of the 
babe she lost in her youth; but yet she did not raise it to her lips or 
utter one pleasant word. She tried to remember ' that she had her- 
self discarded him; and was now the wife of another man; and at 
length with a supreme effort, but still tearless eyes, returned it to its 
hiding-place. 

Then she seated herself in a chair before the fire, and covered her 
face with her hands. She remained long so, thinking again and 
again that humiliating thought, ‘ ‘ He took me from a feeling of 
pity, not of love, and forsakes me already.” She traced clearly her 
future position in the world — unattractive, sick (her health was deli- 
cate), without interest in anything, and married to a man five years 
younger than herself in reality, but a whole life-time in feeling — a 
man sought for by all London — ^brilliant, fond of excitement and 
society, all that she had wearied of and outlived. She remained 
long motionless, then rang for her maid, and retired to rest com- 
posed, but tearless. But when midnight passed, and she heard the 
early morning hours strike, one by one, and still Philip did not re- 
turn, her calmness at length forsook her, and she burst into a long 
and passionate flood of tears. 

Philip found a warm reception everywhere. At the club he made 
a dozen engagements, most of them to bachelor parties; although 
he at first said, laughing, he could not think of accepting them now 
that he was a married man; heard all the newest town gossip; and 
then went off with some of his friends to the opera, where they 
were still in time for the last two acts. As he took his accustomed 
place in the stalls, he was greeted with smiles from all quarters of 
the house, for his marriage had only spoiled him in the eyes of a 
few maneuvering mothers and their daughters, and, with this ex- 
ception, all his fair friends were as delighted to see him as ever. 

A new dancer was to make her first appearance that evening, so 
Philip had not the courage to leave before the ballet, as he had other- 
wise intended. He thought he would just wait to see her, and then 
return home. The debutante was charming, and Philip’s applause 
unbounded; he forgot time, and home, and Clara, while watching 
the exquisitely graceful movements of this young girl, who was of 
surpassing loveliness; and he almost started when, at length, the 
ballet terminated in a flood of rose light, and he was reminded that 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE. 


63 


it was long past midnight. Of course, now that all attraction was 
over, Philip at once prepared to be off; and he was attempting to 
pass quickly through the crowd, when in the lobby one of his 
friends approached, and shaking Earnsclift'e’s hand, gave him a lit- 
tle, delicately folded pink note. 

In your old luck, Phil!” he whispered. ‘‘ Upon my word, it is 
rather soon for a bridegroom to receive such wicked-looking mis- 
sives. I suppose La Thionville spied you out from behind the 
scenes, for she wrote this note in great haste, and begged me, with 
tears in her eyes, to deliver it to you without fail. However, you 
may set your conscience at rest; there is nothing wrong in it, for 
Celeste read it to me as she wrole.” 

The note was written in a small, rather illegible hand, in French, 
and was as follows: — 

“"Cher Monsieur Earnscliffe, — Although you are married, I 
suppose you will not desert all your old friends. Lord B , Nev- 

ille, and a few others will sup with me to-night; we shall only want 
our poet to be complete. Do come to us. Votre ami, 

“ Celeste.” 

Philip hesitated. ‘‘ Not to-night,” he said. “ Make my excuses 
to Celeste; another time — ” 

” Nonsense,” returned Neville; he was a rising young artist, and 
an old school-friend of Philip’s. “ If we once allow you a prece- 
dent, we shall be always losing you, on the score of your new du- 
ties. Celeste tells me that she has got F , and B , and little 

Fridoline herself. We shall be a delightful party — not one stupid 
person — and you know you are not obliged to stop late.” And 
taking Philip’s arm, he led him off — it must be confessed a not un- 
willing victim. They drove in Earnscliffe’s cab to La Thionville’s 
pretty house in the Regent’s Park, where all the guests were already 
assembled. 

“ 1 know I am welcome,” said Neville, on entering the drawing- 
room, ‘ ‘ but not for my own sake. I have brought back an old 
friend to the land of the living.” 

The Frenchwoman gave a theatrical start on seeing Earnscliffe; 
then welcomed him with real delight. She took his arm as they 
went down to supper, and said in a low tone, ** Ah, Philippe! I am 
so surprised and glad to see you. With all your English ideas, I 
feared we should not have you among us again, for a year at the 
very least.” 

The party was brilliant; but Philip could not at first feel quite at 


54 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIFPE. 


his ease. He knew that it was not the sort of society for him to 
make his first appearance in as a married man; and the remark of 
Celeste had unintentionally strengthened this feeling, so for a time 
he remained silent and constrained. But he was among people who 
would not let him long continue so. After trying in vain to make 
him talk, Celeste laughed maliciously, and asked if he was mentally 
composing a poem on the happiness of married life, to account for 
his silence. 

“ If he is,” cried little Fridoline, in her pretty English, ** Mon- 
sieur Earnscliffe’s face is quite proof enough of his theoiy, without 
troubling himself to finish the poem!” 

Celeste, then, looking at the time-piece, inquired till what hour 
he was permitted to remain, as she would not suffer him in her house 
to stay one second longer; and it soon ended by Philip, who tried 
in vain to be dignified, becoming as merry as his two fair neighbors. 

It must be allowed that his’ position was a somewhat dangerous 
one. Celeste, on whose right he sat — she always reserved this place 
of honor for Philip — was a. sparkling, animated brunette, of some 
age under thirty. She was not a first-rate singer; but her acting 
was excellent. She was always natural except off the stage — never 
overstrained — never vulgar — indeed, it was said Celeste was, by 
birth, a lady; or, at least, in her early youth, had moved in good 
Parisian society. She had lived long in Italy, while studying her 
profession, before she appeared in England; but she was French by 
birth, and ha;d all the liveliness of her countrywomen, softened 
down by a slight shade of romantic sentiment, which, as she said, 
she had " learned ” in Italy. Doubtless, she had only “ learned ” 
it; but it became her mightily; and when her naturally laughing 
lips trembled a little, or her dark eyes filled with tears. Celeste was 
unquestionably fascinating. She always appeared well off, and 
piqued herself greatly upon her house, her parties, and, above all, 
her wine, which, wonderful to say for an actress, was really good. 
She liked to collect, at her little suppers, all the cleverest men in 
London; for, though she never read anything herself but her roles, 
she liked to be spoken of as patronizing genius; and, having once 
discovered that authors preferred talking of anything else better 
than of each other’s books, she was never afraid again of being 
bored with their conversation. 

Among books, however, she made one exception. She read Phil- 
ip’s. Perhaps she understood them; more probably she did not, for 
her knowledge of English was very superficial — but, at all events, 
she read them. She had made him write her name on the title-page 


PHILIP EARKSCLIPFE. 


55 


of each,, always had them lying on her table with many of the least 
remarkable passages marked in pencil; and once or twice she told 
Philip she had “ much weeped ” over parts he had rather intended 
to be the witty ones of the story. Celeste had always cherished a 
very romantic sentiment for the young author, and was quite cut 
up at his marriage, thinking that her parties would probably lose 
their best lion by this event, through some of those ‘ ‘ detestable Brit- 
ish prejudices.” His reappearance, however, so soon at her house 
put her in the highest spirits; and Celeste had never been more 
charming than she was that evening. 

On Philip’s other side was “ little Fridoline,” at that time a very 
celebrated actress and one whose mysterious appearance, and subse- 
quent career, had become a subject of universal interest in London. 
The success of this girl in one year had been, indeed, almost fabu- 
lous. Coming, no one could say whence— very young-— without 
friends, or even acquaintances — she had been engaged at the French 
plays to act minor parts. But her extraordinary conception of 
character, and the original coloring she threw over the most trivial 
role she played were such, that, in a few weeks, hundreds crowded 
every night, merely to see Fridoline acting as a souhrette. The man- 
ager saw that he had had a lucky find, promoted her at once with a 
good salary, to first-rate characters, and her success in one season 
nearly made his fortune. Although her French was excellent, and 
her pronunciation of it so true as to be sweet even to a Parisian ear, 
she was not a Frenchwoman. Some said she was a German, some 
Danish, some Kussian. When asked herself, she Invariably an- 
swered that she had not the least idea — that she had no country, no 
relation, no other name than Fridoline; and the utmost persever- 
ance could win from her no further reply. 

In person she was small and fair, with a profusion of waving 
golden hair, and large eyes of the deepest hazel, with very black 
eyelashes. She was Too singular-looking to be exactly beautiful, 
although it was a face of most peculiar and lasting attraction — a 
face that, once seen, could never again be forgotten, but haunted 
the memory like one of those old pictures which we see, for a mo- 
ment, in some dark gallery, or in the dim aisle of a foreign church, 
and never lose again. She lived alone, at some distance from town, 
in a cottage of her own; and free, and strange, and untinged with 
any affectation of propriety, as was her conduct, no breath had 
ever been raised against her, no man’s name was ever mentioned with 
that of little Fridoline! She seemed more calculated to awaken ex- 
treme interest and admiration, than any warmer feeling; anti there 


56 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


lurked something in the mocking expression of her great, dark eyes, 
that would, unconsciously, make any man feel himself ridiculous, 
who attempted to speak to her of love. She went seldom into the 
society of other artists; La Thionville’s being almost the only house 
at which she ever appeared. For Celeste had seen at once, with her 
natural quickness in discerning talent, that Fridoline would one day 
be distinguished; and this — and perhaps some kindlier feeling — had 
made her hold out her hand to the friendless girl, when she first 
began her London career, and show her many little attentions which 
Fridoline’s ignorance of English life rendered most, acceptable; 
once, even attending her in an attack of sudden illness. Now she 
was amply repaid. To say “ Little Fridoline has promised to come,’’ 
was sufficient inducement to make every one else come also; and 
any party was sure to go off brilliantly when she could be persuaded- 
to attend. For Fridoline possessed a fine and subtle wit; the most 
cutting powers of sarcasm; and, at times, but rarely, an unexpected 
and passionate pathos, which made her conversation unlike all 
others. And in her society grave men of genius were silent in ad- 
miration at the ever-changing fancy and brilliant language of this 
gifted little being. 

She liked Earnscliffe; perhaps, because he had never attempted to 
pay her any of the fades compliments which she detested; perhaps, 
because — although knowing no more of her history than did others 
— something in his own heart recognized Fridoline’s high and ex- 
traordinary nature, and made his manner to her, while perfectly re- 
spectful, kind and sympathizing beyond that of mere acquaintance. 
This evening she was in her liveliest vein; every word that fell from 
her lips was sparkling; every idea seemed unusually fresh and origi- 
nal, even from her; and Celeste, without in the least imitating 
Fridoline, was scarcely less brilliant; — even more desirous to shine. 
Her greenroom stories of the last two months — her excellent repe- 
tition of the dons mots of others — her delicate mimicry — and her art - 
of hitting off a character in about six words, had never appeared so 
amusing to Philip before. No wonder that, in such society, he felt 
like a person suddenly descending from the frigid Simplon into 
sunny Italy, after his courtship and icy honey-moon; and that the 
hours struck unheeded, which should have recalled him to his 
bride. He had, himself, regained all his usual spirits; and when, 
at length, the new dancer was discussed, grew animated in his 
praises of her exceeding beauty. 

“ I am slightly acquainted with Miss Elmslie (for, with all her 
grace, she is an Englishwoman),” said Celeste; “and shall invite 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


57 


her some evening, next week, to my house. Of course, I need not 
ask you to meet her?” she added, maliciously, to Philip. 

‘‘ Certainly not,” he replied; I shall need no invitation.” 

Celeste looked very bright. ‘‘ And you, mademoiselle,” she con- 
tinued, to Fridoline, “ will you also meet the young debutante 

Fridoline assented, after a slight hesitation; and then inquired if 
any one knew the particulars of Miss Elmslie’s history before she 
went on the stage? 

‘‘I do,” answered Neville; “shecom.es from my own country, 
although not from the same neighborhood. I think I have heard 
that her father was a clergyman; he was, at all events, a profes- 
sional man, and, dying suddenly, left this girl, then about fourteen, 
quite alone in the world, and without money or protectors. Her ex- 
traordinary beauty and grace — I remember once seeing her when 
she was a child— were exactly of that order best suited to the stage; 
but into whose hands she fell, and how she came to adopt dancing 
as a profession, I have never found out — indeed, it is only a few 
days since I discovered that the " rising star, ’ about whom we have 
all heard so much, was no other than little Rose Elmslie.” 

Fridoline seemed greatly interested in these few words of the 
girl’s history. “ Yes,” she said, turning to Celeste, “ I shall be 
glad to meet her. What evening are we to come?” 

Celeste considered. “Well, after ‘Fidelio,’ on Tuesday, if you 
are free. I know she does not perform that, night.” • Fridoline was 
also disengaged, and Neville and the two or three chosen friends, 
“ honored ” by a place at Celeste’s table, were invited and accept- 
ed. Lastly, she turned toEarnscliffe — “ And you,” she said, “ will 
you really come again so soon?” 

Puilip had a vague recollection that on Tuesday was to be a grand 
entertainment at some of his wife’s relations; but to meet Fridoline, 
and the lovely Rose Elmslie, and half a dozen of his own intimate 
friends, at Celeste’s house, was to him temptation irresistible — and 
he accepted. 

At an hour of the morning not to be mentioned, Neville drove 
home with Philip to his house in Park Lane, and noticing his friend’s 
timid knock at his own door, congratulated himself, as he went off, 
that he was still a bachelor. The sleepy servant looked rather sur- 
prised, as he admitted his newly married master at such an hour; 
but Philip was too much occupied with his own reflections to 
notice the man’s face. Taking a light, he proceeded upstairs as 
noiselessly as he could, hoping Clara was long since asleep, and 
would not hear him come in. 


58 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE. 


When he entered the room all was quiet — she lay motionless; the 
fire had long since burned out, and the whole room seemed dark and 
silent. Shading the light with his hand, he approached the bedside, 
and glanced at his wife. She was not asleep; but — long and bitter- 
ly though she had wept — the marks of tears were now carefully 
effaced from her cheeks, w^hose ghastly whiteness formed a striking 
contrast to his own face, all flushed and animated. ‘‘ Clara — not 
asleep?” 

“ Not asleep, Mr. Earnscliffe; yet, I believe, it is past four 
o’clock!” 

Clara, I am indeed sorry; I was detained by so many old friends 
— the club — ” 

“ Stop, sir!” — and, as she rose a little, her face grew exactly like 
that of her father’s in its expression. “You are, of course, at lib- 
erty to choose your own companions, your own hours; stay out as 
late as you like— live as you will — I am indifferent to it all; but do 
not, at least, stoop to the meanness of a falsehood. You have not 
been at your club until four o’clock in the morning. No, allow 
me to continue ’’—for she saw the indignant words were ready to 
burst from Philip’s lips. “ Another time you will, perhaps, have the 
goodness to sleep in your dressing-room, after remaining out half 
the night. My health is feeble, and will not admit of being thus dis- 
turbed;” and she turned away from him. 

In those few minutes she had completed their estrangement for- 
ever. Philip stood one second irresolute — then turned, and, with- 
out a syllable in reply, left the room. 

When he came home, he felt that he had acted unkindly toward 
Clara, in leaving her thus on the flrst night of their return; and at 
the sight of her pale face, kind words of excuse were rising to his 
lips, but her harsh reception of him had undone all. She had ac- 
cused him of meanness — of falsehood, and had herself made the 
proposal that they should, in future, occupy separate apartments; 
liis pride was galled to the quick. Prom that moment he knew that 
an eternal barrier was raised between them, and a bitterer feeling 
than, in all his young life, he had yet experienced, arose in his 
breast. He threw himself down on his dressing-room sofa, and 
with a strange calmness, reflected what their future existence would 
be. He felt that love — even if its shadow had ever existed between 
his wife and himself — was entirely over now. Only four weeks ago 
they had stood together before God’s altar, and taken those solemn 
oaths of love and truth, “ till death should part them;” and already 
both had failed in their contract. Clara had openly acknowledged 


PHILIP EAKiq’SCLIFFE. 


59 


her indifference to him that night, and he, a dozen times, had bit- 
terly repented his marriage, and already chafed impatiently under 
the yoke. 

‘‘ I will live for the world only, then!” he exclaimed, at length. 
“ She has offered me my life apart, and my freedom, and I accept 
it. In the society of Celeste and Fridoline, I am not likely to miss 
that of my frigid wife and he laughed, but with a forced, un- 
natural sound. 

With all his faults, Philip had, unfortunately for himself, a deep 
and affectionate heart, and he felt an aching void when he recalled 
Clara’s harsh, unforgiving words, and contrasted them with old 
Miles’s kindly greetings at the breakfast-table, and ready excuses of 
his late hours. 

The lights, the laughter, the gay voices of Celeste’s party were 
still whirling in his brain; but a look of inexpressible sorrow stole 
over his young face, as he felt that for him the word ” home ” had 
henceforth no meaning. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Philip and his wife did not meet the following morning. Clara 
afterward went to spend the day with her mother; and, in the after- 
noon, Philip rode down to see his uncle. It Was a fine winter day, 
the air ringing and elastic; and, as he cantered on at a quick pace, 
his spirits rose under the infiuence of exercise, and the pure, healthy 
atmosphere. 

He found Miles at home, occupying himself, as usual, about his 
grounds. His face grew radiant when he saw Philip in the distance, 
riding up the long avenue which led to the house. He had not 
hoped to see him on the first day after his return, and advanced to 
greet him with as earnest a welcome as though they had not met for 
years. 

“ It was kind of you, Phil, to remember me so soon. I wanted 
you especially to-day. That idiot of a head-gardener has positively 
proposed that I should throw down the old wall by the kitchen- 
garden, and extend the shrubbery as far as the stables on the other 
side, shutting out the distant view of the river. You don’t think it 
would be an improvement?” He spoke quickly, and Philip knew 
well that he had branched off into another .subject only to conceal 
his pleasure at seeing him. 

” We will talk it all over, uncle,” he replied; ‘‘ for if you will 
have me, I intend remaining to-day, and dining with you,” 


I 


60 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE, 


“ If I will have you, boy? I am only surprised at having you so 
soon. As a rapturous bridegroom, I never expected you would re- 
member me. However, I must say, that even in your honey-moon 
you were not forgetful of me. You write capital letters, Phil.” 

A servant now came up and took his horse; and Miles, linking his 
arm in Philip’s, walked him off to see the projected improvements, 
and hear his opinion upon them; and thus engaged, the short winter 
afternoon passed only too quickly to the old man. 

Philip did not approve entirely of the gardener’s plan, but pro- 
posed another, by which the shrubbery could be extended without 
interfering with his uncle’s favorite view of the river; and he prom- 
ised to draw the plans, and come down and superintend the work 
himself, as soon as the weather was favorable for commencing. 

“ I knew Duncan was wrong,” said Miles, “ although I could not 
improve upon his plan myself. I wanted your taste and quick eye, 
Phil.” 

“lam afraid I shall lose my old gardening tastes, now,” replied 
Philip. “ London will henceforth be my home, with the. exception 
of three months shooting in the Highlands, or an excursion abroad 
every autumn; and I shall forget all the familiar lore of planting, 
and planning, and grafting, that I have studied in this old garden, 
under Duncan, so many years. You can not tell how pleasant it 
seems for me to return. here, sir: although I have been away only 
four weeks, I feel like a wanderer returning home.” 

“ And how often shall I see you, Phil?” asked Miles, abruptly, 
when they sat together in their old places, after dinner, just as they 
had done for more than fifteen years. “ I suppose, with all your 
grand friends, and your parties, and your wife, I shall stand a poor 
chance.” 

“You do not really mean that,” returned Philip. “As far as 
engagements go, they can not be much more numerous now than 
they were before I married; and, doubtless, my wife will be able to 
spare me a few hours occasionally, when I wish to visit you.” 

Something in his tone, as he said the words “ my wife,” made his 
uncle look at him more closely. Then he noted that Philip, with- 
out being either paler or thinner, or in any way altered in feature, 
looked already much older. In a, few weeks the indescribable ex- 
pression of youth was gone, and his face had already the look of a 
man who has lived and suffered. It was a painful thought for 
Miles; and, changing the subject, he inquired if Philip was writing 
anything? 

“ Not at present, uncle. You remember our plan of going into 


PHILIP EARKSCLIPPE. 


61 


the countiy, for me to think and breathe before beginning another 
book — well, I believe my new life will work, although in a different 
manner, a somewhat similar result. After a few months of matri- 
mony, I shall take up my pen.” 

“ Oh! where is Clara, to-day?” 

“ Clara? well, I believe she is at home — no — I recollect, at Lady 
St. Leger’s.” 

Indeed! Well, what do you think of my Yorkshire property, 
Phil?” 

” It is a beautiful place. I wonder you have not been there more 
frequently yourself. The time of year was unfavorable for seeing 
it to advantage; but I was never tired of wandering about with my 
gun, over the moors, or among those wild hills, and in the deep re- 
cesses of the forest, covered although it all was with snow.” 

“ Warm work for a honey-moon!” muttered Miles. 

Then they began .speaking of other things; old interests in which 
both were connected — old scenes— old times; Philip’s literary proj- 
ects for the future. They seemedy by tacit consent, to avoid any 
mention of the present; and Philip, especially, turned away from 
all sul^'ects that bore upon his marriage, or the St. Legers. 

When eleven o’clock came his horse was ordered round, and he 
was. preparing to wrap up for his cold ride, when the old butler 
came in, and said it was a fearful bad night for the young master to 
ride up to town. It had thawed, and then frozen in the course of 
the evening, and the ground was like ice; while the first fiakes of an 
approaching snow-storm were beginning to fall. 

“ I don’t like taking the horses out at night, when I can help it, 
Phil, as you know,” said Mr. Earnscliffe; “ but . I will order the 
carriage round, sooner than you should run any risk of breaking the 
mare’s knees. Marcus and Anthony are so steady, they would not 
fall on ice itself. Besides, you are not warmly enough clad to be 
exposed to such weather.” 

Philip saw that his uncle never even thought of asking him to 
stop all night; and he rather hesitated at making the proposal him- 
self, though he knew Clara would not be anxious at his absence 
(after the manner of most young wives), and he really preferred re- 
maining where he was, to riding through a snow-storm. 

Well, the fact is, uncle, I should not like to take out your 
horses; and it is certainly not a night for my skittish Gulare. If 
my old bedroom — ” 

” Why, Of course, boy. I am only too glad to keep you; but I 


62 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE^- 


thought your wife would be anxious, and I did not like to propose 
it.’’ 

“ Oh, I dare say Clara will guess where I am.” 

So Philip’s old room was prepared for him; and, as he was tired 
after his last night’s vigil, he soon bade his uncle good-night and 
went off to bed. 

For the thousandth time in my life I thank Heaven that I never 
married,” said old Miles, devoutly, when the door closed after his 
nephew. ‘ ‘ Here is another specimen of wedded bliss, and only 
after four weeks’ experience! When I think of all the talk there 
was of his honor and her happiness for life, I repeat it,” he added, 
with increasing fervor; thank Heaven, I never married!” 

When Philip returned home at noon, next day, he found Clara 
reading in the drawing-room. She laid down her book on his en- 
trance, and greeted her husband with the same polite ceremony she 
would have shown to a stranger. Her manner at once prevented 
Philip from volunteering any explanations of his long absence; nor 
was she likely to ask him any questions after their recent scene on 
his return from Celeste’s party. 

Are you engaged to-day? I have an invitation for you to ac- 
company me to my father’s to dine.” 

The St. Legers, according to the usual plan adopted by people 
who are utterly ruined, were giving a whole scries of expensive en- 
tertainments. Philip hated all grand dinners; and he felt that those 
of his pompous father-in-law would now be more than distasteful to 
him. He took out his note-book, determined not to go. 

“ I am sorry I have an engagement for to-day; it is one of long 

standing — a dinner given, to B by some of our members, and 

that it would be impossible for me to miss.” 

Clara’s lip curled. 

” The Duke and Duchess of C , the Marquis of W , Prince 

N , and a dozen others, will dine with us/’ she said. “ It is al- 

most a kindness in Mr. Philip Earnscliffe to give up his place; for 
the dining-room in Grafton Street is so unfortunately small.” 

The sarcasm was meant to hide her wounded feelings; but her 
lips quivered a second when she thought of appearing for the first 
time, as a bride, without her husband. She knew that a club din- 
ner was really no engagement, and that Philip’s answer was but a 
tacit acceptance of the liberty she had herself offered him. 

“How brilliant you will be!” he remarked, sauntering toward 

the door. '‘We shall have only L , and T , and p ,” 

naming some . of the most distinguished literary men in London. 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


63 


“Pray remember for me a few of the Duke of C ’s best 

mots, and a little of the caustic wisdom of the noble marquis; and, 
in the meantime, an rewir. ’ ’ 

He smiled gayly as he left her; and she felt that their actual life 
had begun in earnest. 

Clara dined alone at her father’s; Philip at his club. But, as is 
usual in such cases, he was in high spirits, and enjoyed the evening 
immensely; while his wife had a martyrdom to encounter in the 
half -pitying looks of her dearest friends, and the still more trying 
after-dinner questions of her own female relations. A man feels no 
slur upon his pride in the world’s thinking that he is not particularly 
happy at home; but to every woman the mere suspicion of being 
neglected in her marriage is in itself a humiliation. 

“ Well, my dearest Clara,” said one of her cousins, as she sat in 
her bridal satin, turning over listlessly the leaves of some annuals; 
“ I am glad to see you looking so bright and well. But where is 
Mr. Earnscliffe? Surely he must be here; and yet I have not hap- 
pened to see him. ” 

“Philip was engaged to a literary dinner,” answered Clara, 
shortly. 

“Ah, yes! Well, one can not expect authors to be like other 
men; these great geniuses are so seldom fond of home, and Mr. 
Earnscliffe is so young. ’ ’ 

“ Your married happiness has at least, then, been spared the trial 
that is in store for mine, dear,” replied Lady St. Leger’s daughter, 
smiling calmly. “ If genius is required to make a husband un- 
domestic, Sir Harry is undoubtedly safe;” and she glanced at her 
cousin’s husband — a stupid, heavy -looking young man, with elabor- 
ate whiskers, and a very small head, but who, nevertheless, had not 
the reputation of being excessively fond of his wife’s society. 

The lady colored scarlet, and Clara felt her small triumph. She 
began talking with more animation to the people around her, list- 
ened with apparent interest to Prince H ’s bad English and worse 

wit, and the inane dullness of the Duke of C , and gradually l^^r 

spirits rose with her desire to feel happy. But, when all was over, 
and she was driving back to her lonely home, her cousin’s words 
recurred to her in more than their first bitterness. She felt that 
numberless similar remarks upon her appearing alone must have 
been made that evening; that at every succeeding party to which 
she went without her husband these remarlis would be confirmed 
and multiplied; and the pride of her nature revolted angrily against 
such an existence. Lady Clara forgot that this was the commence- 


64 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


ment of the life of liberty she had herself olfered to Philip— that, in 
all the flush of his youth and popularity, her harsh words had 
thrown him back upon his old world — his old associates— merely 
because her own pride had revolted at one evening’s absence. 

And this forever!” she thought, as she entered her sleeping- 
room, and looked round at its costly luxuries, which seemed to 
mock their solitary possessor. ‘‘ Oh, that either of us could die!” 
But people do not die in this world because they have made foolish 
marriages, or the human race would not be long in diminishing 
sensibly from the face of the earth; on the contrary, the fact of their 
having done so generally appears to add some years to the natural 
term of existence. Philip and his wife lived on just as they would 
have done had they been any happily assorted couple; and weeks 
and months passed by, while each in its course only deepened their 
mutual estrangement, and lessened any prospect of their reunion. 
It had become an established thing for Philip to associate, as usual, 
with all his old bachelor friends, and for Lady Clara to appear with- 
out him at the opera, or among her own circles: for, since his mar- 
riage, Philip had cared .far less for balls and dinner-parties, and 
more for that society in which it was impossible for him to meet his 
wife or her relations. 

He had conceived a feeling closely bordering upon hatred for both 
the St. Legers. Of the way Lady St. Leger had beguiled him into 
his marriage with her daughter, solel}'’ for his uncle’s wealth, he had 
no longer any doubt; and for that good deed he felt exactly the 
amount of gratitude which was natural toward his mother-in-law; 
while in his sentiments for her husband was mingled a proud con- 
tempt that he was scarcely able to conceal. Lord St. Leger had, 
from the first, treated him with a sort of fawning affection, whicli 
coming from such a man, Philip knew could only cover some latent 
design ; and very shortly after his marriage its nature had been re- 
vealed. St. Leger tried to borrow money of him. Philip affected 
the first time to treat it as a mere joke, saying he had not ten pounds 
<5f his own in the world; but when, a few days having elapsed, St. 
Leger again assailed him — Philip having in the meantime attained 
his majority^and endeavored, with a great deal of soft plausibility, 
to induce him to indorse some bills (knowing well that any paper 
bearing the signature of Miles Earnscliffe’s heir would be readily 
discounted by those among the fraternity of Hebrew money-lenders 
who already looked with suspicion upon his own noble autograph), 
Philip turned away from him with disgust. 

“You are altogether mistaken in me, Lord St. Leger,” he re- 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


65 


plied, haughtily. “ I have no property whatever of my own; and 
it is, therefore, impossible for me to become security for others. 
The allowance made me since my marriage, by my uncle — although 
a most liberal one — is not more than sufficient for my own use. I 
shall consider it right to give it up entirely when I am enabled to 
live upon the fruits of my own exertions; and, in the meantime, I 
must entreat of you not to place me in the painful position of having 
to refuse you again.’' 

When he was stern, Philip’s face could assume an expression not 
unlike that of Miles; and in his dark eye and compressed lip, St. 
Leger read a cold, unalterable determination. He was foiled a sec- 
ond time by the nephew, as he had already been by the uncle; and, 
from that day forth, made no more affectionate demonstrations to 
his son-in-law. They detested each other mutually. 


CHAPTER IX. 

From his wife’s relations, and the world in which they moved, 
Philip turned with undisguised pleasure to his artist friends, and 
the easy, unrestrained intereourse of their life. Especially between 
himself and little Pridoline, a feeling of friendship had of late arisen 
that soon bordered upon intimacy. 

The world in general scoffs at the possibility of mere friendship 
between a man of Philip’s age and a young girl, especially if, like 
poor Fridoline, she chance to be an actress; and, in the generality 
of cases, the world would be right. But Fridoline was so entirely 
apart from everybody else, in her odd, secluded life, and undis- 
guised avowal of her preference, that even she was allowed to have 
Eamscliffe for a friend, and no tongue be found to whisper an idle 
word against her. He constantly met her at rehearsal of a morning, 
and when the weather was fine, and Fridoline walked, would ac- 
company her home. She lived in a cottage on the very extremity 
of Hampstead Heath, an extremely inconvenient distance from the 
theater, but which she had chosen from her love for the country, 
and because it was far away from the noise and smoke of London. 
She could walk any distance without fatigue, and seldom took a cab 
in the daytime, when the weather was at all fine. One day, after 
the rehearsal of a new and difficult part, of a more tragical nature 
than she generally performed, Philip volunteered his escort home, 
and was, as usual, accepted. She was flushed when they left the 
theater, but by the time the interminable streets were traversed, and 
they had gained the open heath, her cheeks became veiy pale, while 


66 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


her step flagged and she looked wearied. Some felled trees lay by 
the road-side, and Philip proposed she should sit down and rest 
awhile. She did so silently, and he took a place hy her side. It 
was a sweet, breezy day early in June, and the country was covered 
with tender green. A few fleecy clouds flitted slowly over the blue 
sky; the swallows, newly returned, wheeled round in playful cir- 
cuits, and the air was sweet with the scent of violets from a neigh- 
boring garden, mixed with the hawthorn blossoms of the hedges. 

The world is fair,” said Fridoline in a low voice, and as if ad- 
dressing herself more than her companion, “ but stained and blotted 
out with sin!” 

“ Of which you at least have known little,” added Philip gently. 

“ Of which I have known much,” she replied, turning round her 
wearied face to his. “ Much,” — she went on almost vehemently— 
“ more than any other girl of my age; or, at least, I have felt it 
more than any other can have done — have had it crushed down in 
all its hideousness upon myself; ay! upon my own flesh and blood 
— until the whole earth has seemed to me a black and festering 
mass of corruption — ” 

“ How old are you, Fridoline?” interrupted Philip, with a feeling 
almost of horror at the girl’s unnatural manner. 

“ Nineteen,” she replied; “ and to-day is my birthday.” 

Philip took her hand, touched at the humble, mournful tone of her 
voice, and pressed it, as he wished her some kindly birthday con- 
gratulations. She scarcely heeded him, though she tried to smile. 

“ Nineteen,” she went on: “and to know all that I do! lean 
not believe I am so young. It is only four years since I woke from 
my childhood, and knew what I was, and the terrible darkness of 
my life? Oh, come away!” — she rose hastily, and as though sud- 
denly recollecting that she was thinking aloud — “ come home! I 
have need of my home and rest.” 

He gave her his arm, for she trembled violently, and they walked 
on during the remainder of the way in silence. Philip felt that, in 
her excited state, it was useless for him, ignorant as he was of her 
former history, to attempt anything like consolation; and Fridoline, 
pale and agitated, never opened her lips. She seemed scarcely con- 
scious that she was not alone. 

They stopped before a pretty cottage — one of the old country cot- 
tages that, a few years ago, were still to be found on Hampstead 
Heath; this was Fridoline’s home. Hoses and creepers grew almost 
entirely over the front, and covered the little entrance porch of rus- 
tic wood, where, happy in the sun, lay a rough, wiry terrier. He 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIPPE. 


67 


started up with an angry snap at his own sleepiness, when he heard 
approaching steps, hut hounded forward the moment he saw his 
mistress. She stooped to pat him, and the creature looked up into 
her face with an expression of such love as, for the first time, 
brought tears into her eyes. 

“ You are glad to see me, poor old Karl I” said Fridoline: and 
she entered the little garden. 

Philip had before accompanied her to the gate, hut she had never 
invited him further, so he prepared now to take his leave. 

“ Ko; come in!” she cried. '‘You shall he my birthday guest.” 

Her manner was so earnest, that Philip saw she really wished it, 
and they walked together toward the house. 

K^l looked with extreme suspicion at the first male intruder he 
had ever seen in his mistress’s domains: and, as he followed them 
up the path, suddenly relieved himself of these feelings by giving 
an angry hark, and seizing the skirts of Philip’s coat in his teeth, 
shaking the cloth from side to side with great ferocity. As he did 
so, he was almost lifted from the ground, and his hind feet scratched 
angrily in the gravel. Philip naturally turned at the unexpected 
assault, so did Fridoline; and, in a second, by one of those in- 
stantaneous transitions peculiar to her temperament, the sense of the 
ludicrous mastered every other feeling. The expression of old Karl, 
snarling and scratching, and rolling his sharp eyes with rage, yet 
still holding fast, while Philip, with great dignity, attempted in 
vain to shake him off, was too much for little Fridoline, although 
her eyes were actually suffused with tears at the moment, and she 
hurst into peals of laughter; not one merely, hut peal after peal of a 
clear, ringing, childish laughter, that at length brought the solitary 
maid-servant to the door to see what it was all about. She was a 
dark, foreign-looking woman of middle age, and harsh features; 
and her expression was not pleasant on seeing Philip. However, 
when she perceived how matters stood, she darted out at once to his 
relief, and by dint of pulling and threats, and, at length, a few 
vigorous blows, Karl was mastered, and carried off, to vent his re- 
maining fury in. captivity. Little Fridoline only laughed the more 
at this conclusion of the contest, and when, at length, she was able 
to speak, and apologize to Philip for Karl’s inhospitable mode of 
welcome, her usual spirits had completely returned, and every trace 
of emotion disappeared from her sunny face. 

‘‘We are so unused to visitors in mj menage, said, "that 
you must forgive poor Karl. He looks upon all intruders as his • 
natural enemies; and I see I must be more careful in introducing 


68 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


you to the other members of the household, for I have two large 
cats and a tame hawk, who could all be formidable if they chose/’ 
You ttre fond of pets, Fridoline?” 

‘‘Yes, lam fond of Karl, and he loves me— -the others are my 
amusement. It makes my greatest distraction to collect the animals 
together, and watch them, when my head aches after learning some 
long role.. The cats are friends in appearance, but not in reality, 
except as regards their hatred to Karl — principle, perhaps, of many 
a human alliance; and it does me good to see the hearty spite with 
which they occasionally give vent to their feelings, and claw each 
other’s ears. Karl looks down upon them with sovereign contempt, 
as if aware of his power; but in another quarter, he is a mere hen- 
pecked coward. My hawk. Old Bess — there she is, making rushes 
after worms on the grass-plot—is his household virago; and, by 
making unexpected descents on him from behind dark bushes in the 
garden, and peering fiercely down and hissing from impossible 
places when he thinks he is going to have a quiet noonday nap, 
makes his life a constant uneasy watch. The canaries are, compared 
with the others, stupid things; but even their rage, when the spar- 
rows dare to come near their cage in the garden, and pick up their 
discarded dainties, is almost human.” 

And all this little nonsense, in Fridoline’s foreign English, and 
told in her own lively way, sounded pretty. She led Philip into 
her small drawing-room, and the simple, good taste of its appear- 
ance struck him at once, compared to the glittering grandeur with 
which Celeste, like most actresses, loved to be surrounded. The 
furniture was all in the cottage style, and the curtains of plain 
white muslin; but, altogether, it had the air of a room inhabited by 
some young and innocent girl. A small piano stood open; work, 
and books that looked well read, lay on the table; and bouquets of 
fresh flowers were everywhere. 

‘‘ Poor Hulda brought me all these flowers for my birthday,” said 
Fridoline, ” and told me, as she had no taste, I must arrange them 
for myself. She loves me as her own child, and has been with me 
all my life.” 

It was the first time Fridoline had ever made so distinct an ad- 
mission of belonging to humanity, and Philip thought he might im- 
prove upon the opportunity. 

“ Your servant does not look English, from the slight glimpse I 
had of her,” he remarked. 

“ ISTo, Mr. Earnscliffe,” said Fridoline, slyly, “ she is not; neither 
is Hulda an English name. ’ ’ 


PHILIP EAR'SrSGLIFPE. 


69 


“ Her face is^ not French.” 

“ She is not a Frenchwoman.” 

“Nor German?” 

“ Nor German, nor Danish, nor Swedish.” 

He was silent. Fridoline’s eyes laughed, though her lips did not. 

“ What do you think of my house?” she asked. 

“ It is a charming little place for the summer. How do you like 
it in winter, when the snow is on the ground?” 

“ Ah,- that'is not the question. You should say, rather, in those 
long months of mild, drizzling rain which make up your English 
winters. Well, I must confess, it is not so pleasant then as in June, 
though I am always too occupied to be dull. When we do have 
fine, hard frost and bright sun, and the trees and bushes bend under 
their load of snow, I love it!” (she looked animated) — “ I wish it 
would last for months. It reminds me of our real, long, glorious 
northerq winters — ” Here she stopped short, and looked rather 
afraid she was going too far. 

“ Long, glorious winters!” said Philip; “ but not those of France 
or Germany. Fridoline, I shall find out your secret soon.” 

She rose laughing, and cried, “I know your thoughts well; but I 
shall have no pity upon your curiosity; and, to punish you, you 
shall remain alone while I take off my bonnet, and ease Hulda’s 
mind as to your appearance in my house, for I am afraid, at present, 
she is rather of Karl’s way of thinking on the subject.” 

When Fridoline had left the room, Philip approached the table, 
and began to examine the numerous and well-read books, in all 
languages, that were scattered there. With the exception of a few 
volumes of poetry — a Dante, Goethe’s “Faust,” some of Oehlen 
Schlager’s smaller poems, and a volume of Shakespeare— all the 
books were of an abstract and somewhat gloomy nature. No works 
of lighter literature, no modern fictions, such as the generality of 
girls of her age would delight in, were there; but abundance of 
subtle philosophy upon human nature, and devotional books of the 
sternest, most austere description, such as might be fittingly placed 
in the hands of a criminal stained with the blackest guilt. She 
seemed to have chosen all that bore on the darker side of our exist- 
ence, or that analyzed deeply the enigma of the human heart under 
the influence of sin, as though her young life could already need the 
solution which few care to seek for till they have themselves tasted 
fully of the bitter after-fruits of passion. 

One large book seemed particularly well read, and Philip opened 
it. It was in striking contrast to all the others — the illustrated edi' 


70 


PHILIP EABKSCLIFFE. 


tion, in German, of “ Grimm’s Fairy Tales,” He ti^rned over the 
pages so loved in his own childhood; saw Hans once more, sitting 
under the rock with a lump of gold as big as his head, the musicians 
of Bremen defending, with their unearthly music, the lonely house 
against the robbers; the happy elves trying on their nether garments, 
made by the shoe-maker’s grateful wife; the mayor and the burgo- 
master jumping into the pond after the reflection of the clouds, 
which they take for flocks of sheep; and at last Philip grew so inter- 
ested that he seated himself, and began the perusal of some of his 
old friends with much zest. 

In the meantime Fridoline had changed the dark morning-dress, 
in which she always went to rehearsal, for a little white muslin 
frock, and rearranged her luxuriant golden hair. Then she ran off 
to Hulda, in the kitchen, and explained to her that Mr. Earnscliffe 
was to be looked upon with no mistrust, being a poet, and unlike 
other men, and a very kind friend of her own; during all of which 
Hulda continued her cooking with great sternness of expression, 
and did not look the least convinced in her own mind. Then Frido- 
line added, And he will stay to dine with me, dear Hulda; so I 
shall have a guest on my birthday, and you must give us one of 
your best dinners. ’ ’ 

After this she went out with Karl, whose temper was somewhat 
restored, into the garden, to look after a very early moss-rose she 
had been watching for some days past. The bud had just half- 
broken into blossom; and Fridoline plucked it, and ran up to the 
glass door which led from the garden into her sitting room. She 
saw Philip reading, and, entering noiselessly, stole up, and leaned 
over his shoulder, before he was aware of her presence. 

“ Oh, wise philosopher!” she cried, suddenly. “ With a table 
full of deep and subtle works, I find you poring over Hans and 
Gretchen.” 

“ Well,” returned Philip, “ the wonder is, not that I should read 
them, but that a person like Fridoline should permit such childish 
stories to repose among her sage books.” 

Her face grew grave directly. 

It w strange that I should like anything belonging to the inno- 
cence of children,” she answered; but, though I can not care for 
novels, it delights me to read those wild German stories that I have 
known all my life. They have the same effect upon me as my ani- 
mals: they take me altogether from the world, and the people I be- 
long to; while novels are still mimic representations of our existence 
— only seen through falsely colored glasses. No! if I read of human 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIPPE. 


71 


beings and biiman hearts, let me study them as they are, in their 
stern, unaltered reality; and then, when 1 want amusement, turn to 
the honest love of Karl, and the innocent vices of the cats, or the 
dwarfs and fairies of old Grimm. 

“ What an early rosebud, Fridoline!” 

“It is for you.” She placed it in his button-hole. “For two 
birthdays I have had no companion but Hulda, and I am so glad to 
see you here to-day, and to offer even a poor flower to some one 
who will accept it on my birthday.” 

“And I have nothing to offer you, Fridoline,” replied Philip. 
“You should receive, not give, presents on your birthday.’* 

“You can give me something I should like,” she returned. 
“ Write me a few lines — not like those you write to Celeste, full of 
compliments and sentiments you don’t feel — but the simple expres- 
sion of some feeling connected with this sweet June day — something 
that I can keep to remind me of my nineteenth birthday, in Eng- 
land, when I have returned to my own country.” 

“It is difiicult to write lines addressed ‘ To Fridoline, on her 
nineteenth birthday,’ without being complimentary,” Philip an- 
swered, looking up into her earnest face as she leaned over him; 
“ however, I will try. But you must promise not to look at me as I 
write, or ‘ those deep, dark eyes ’ will be sure to be introduced, 
much to your indignation.” 

The slightest flush rose in Fridoline ’s cheek as she stepped back 
from his side; and, seating herself by her work-table, she took up 
some half-flnished embroidery that lay there. But, as Philip began 
to write, the work fell from her Angers, and she watched him in- 
tently until he finished — ^watched his mobile features, that lighted 
up with every rapidly succeeding image of his own fancy — his high, 
fair brow — his careless, poet like attitude; and thought — what did 
poor little Fridoline think? 

“ It is done, Fridoline; but I am afraid you will not like the lines. 
They are very commonplace, after all. Shall I read them?” 

“ Ko; I would rather read them for myself.” 

She took the paper, and, turning toward the window, read the 
contents eagerly. Could Philip have seen her face, he would have 
discovered a slight shade of disappointment, when she finished; 
however, she j;umed quickly toward him again, and said, with a 
smile, “ the lines were beautifully written, and that she should value 
them much,” placing them, as she spoke, in a writing-case on the 
table. 


72 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIPFE. 


“And the sentiment/’ said Earnscliffe, “does that not please 
you?” 

“ Yes — only you alluded to my theatrical success — you could not, 
even for to-day, forget that I am an actress. Come out, now,” she 
added, “ and see the extent of my wide domain. It is too fine to 
remain wi thin- doors. ’ ’ 

They went out together into the garden, and sat down under a 
pink hawthorn in full flower on the little grass-plot. Fridoline’s 
borders were redolent of early sweets, for Hulda was a good gar- 
dener; and, with directions from her mistress, kept everything in 
perfect order. She was a -remarkably plain woman, and had always 
had an extreme dislike for the stronger sex, even in her own land; 
and this feeling, when extended to Englishmen, amounted to open 
enmity, that afforded Fridoline much amusement. So no man was 
ever admitted upon the premises, except for those needful operations 
of cutting and pruning, which were beyond Hulda’s powers; and, 
in the early summer mornings, she even rose and mowed the lawn, 
to the great risk of cutting off her own feet, and the unbounded 
pleasure of all the small boys who gathered round the gate, however 
early she began, and, thrusting their snubby noses through the bars, 
made remarks detrimental to the “ blessed old furriner’s ” science. 

There was a hay-field close to the garden: the scent of the new-cut 
hay mingled pleasantly with that of the flowers, and Philip and 
Fridoline sat talking in the fresh air until three o’clock, when Hulda 
appeared and waved her hand at the porch: this Fridoline under- 
stood to be a signal for dinner, and they entered. Philip did ample 
justice to the simple meal, and never enjoyed a grand dinner-party 
half as much as his tete-oL-tete with Fridoline, who chatted and 
laughed merrily, but did the small honors as gracefully as though 
she were a countess. When dinner was nearly over she said — “ I 
am sure Hulda must have taken a fancy to you, for she has given 
us two of our national dishes, and nothing is a stronger mark of 
favor.” 

“ I should think the attention was more probably paid to your 
birthday than to your visitor,” returned Philip. “ The few glances 
I have caught her giving me have certainly not been loving ones. 
It is a pity she understands so little English, as I have no opportun- 
ity of paying her any compliments on her excellent dinner. ’ ’ 

Fridoline conveyed this speech to Hulda in a whisper, whereupon, 
without any reply, she walked stiffly out of the room, shutting the 
door very loudly in her retreat. 

“She is quite delighted,” said her mistress, “but that is her 


PHILIP EARl^SCLIFPE. 73 

peculiar mode of showing it; I know her so well, poor creature! Is 
it not strange how any one can live in a country for months and 
months, as she has done, without learning to speak? I could make 
myself understood when I had been in England six weeks.’* 

“ But every one has not the talent of little Fridoline — ” 

'' Fi done! Monsieur Earnscliffe. You must be thinking of 
Celeste, or Miss Elmslie, to-day, or you would not pay compliments. 
You forget you are talking to me J ’ 

“ Indeed I do not, mademoiselle.” 

A stranger might have thought this long day, spent in each 
other’s society, rather a dangerous one for them both; but Philip, 
much as he admired and was interested in Fridoline, could never 
entertain anything but a friendly feeling toward this wild, uncertain 
little being, so unlike all other women; and every thought of hers 
was too strained upon one deeply engrossing object, for her to run 
any risk from human love. At least, Fridoline believed so. 

” I have still another room to show you,” she said, after dinner. 
” This one has a western aspect, and when the summer is over, it is 
cold and dark in the morning; so I have fitted up one upstairs for 
my winter study, where the early light shines fuller, and I have a 
pleasant view over the common.” 

She led the way up the old-fashioned staircase, warning Philip to 
beware of the projecting beams overhead, and showed him into her 
winter study. It was almost a prettier room than the lower one — 
more light and cheerful; and though very plainly furnished, made 
artist-like by some plaster casts from the antique, and one or two 
excellent engravings on the walls. Philip asked, as he examined 
them, if she was fond of pictures. 

“I love them beyond everything,” she replied. “Painting is 
the noblest branch of^art after all, and must be by far the sweetest 
to follow. Authors must toil with pen and paper, and bring out 
their glowing thoughts through the cold medium of words, which, 
you know, are not understood by everybody; untaught people and 
little children, for instance, the two classes I should like best to 
please, only see that books are printed paper. But the painter’s 
words are like those of God: the sky, and fiowers, and trees; and 
He speaks to all. How could the touching truths of religion ever 
have been realized to the common people before printing was in- 
vented, but for painting? The abstract idea of Christ as a teacher, 
delivering lessons of wisdom and morality, could never have been 
brought home to them; but they saw Him ministering to the poor- 
healing the sick— -giving life to the dead; saw Him suffering — 


74 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIPFE. 


crowned with thorns— dying on the cross; and they loved and be- 
lieved.’’ 

She spoke in her usual rapid manner; but her eye dilated, and 
Philip saw that it was a favorite subject. 

Poets and painters each have the same high mission,” he an- 
swered: “to embody those true and beautiful thoughts that lie in 
the hearts of most men; but which they require another, peculiarly 
gifted, to express for them.” 

“Yes; but poets have more power of making you feel with their 
feelings, and see with their senses, than painters, and that is why 1 
prefer painting. A sunset of Claude’s, a Madonna of Eaphael’s, is 
only a faithful representation of the highest earthly beauty, from 
which each mind may derive its own unassisted delight, as it would 
do from Nature herself.” 

“lam convinced,” said Philip, “ that painters themselves are the 
happiest of men. Writers of all kinds, or, at least, the large major- 
ity of them, soon grow hardened by rough contact with the world,, 
harsh criticism, and literary jealousies. But an artist has little of 
such discipline; he dwells abroad with Nature, or in his studio 
with Art, hanging over his darling picture with the love of a mother 
over her first-born, with far tenderer feeling than an author ever felt 
for the blurred, unsightly manuscript he is committing to the 
printer. His work is so exclusively the painter’s he has 
watched it from the first moment of its conception, through all the 
dawning shades of development, until its perfection; and he feels 
that that individual picture will exist and speak of him long after 
the hand that painted it is cold. And however poor the work, this 
golden delusion is the same. No disappointment, no poverty, ever 
mars the love of the worst painter for his pictures. But your own 
art, Fridoline,” he added, gently; “ let us speal#of that also.” 

“ Mine I” she answered, mournfully; “oh! you know well that 
the greatest singers have only their one ‘ crowded hour of glorious 
life,’ and are then forgotten; while all other genius leaves some per 
manent creation for the future. An artist, who can live only 
through his physical powers, has no future existence — our memory 
dies quicker than the flowers flung at our feet on a farewell-night. 
Mine is the lowest art of all. I doubt if the first actor who ever 
lived really ennobled human nature, or raised one fallen spirit 
through his genius. Everything about the stage is so false; the 
light and the paint, and the actors themselves, who are scarcely off 
the scene before they sink down again from the noblest character 
into their own debased lives. Why, the very air of the theater has. 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


75 


something unnatural in it— an association of midday darkness and 
tinsel splendor at night, that I can never shake off. Do you know, 
Mr. Earnscliffe,” she went on, wandering from the original subject, 
“ I never seem to breathe after rehearsal or performance, till I feel 
myself again in'the fresh air of the country?” 

“You have chosen a pleasant spot,” said Philip, as he seated 
himself at the open window; “ one well suited to your simple nat- 
ural tastes.” 

She took a low stool and placed herself near him. “ Are you 
perfectly happy?” she inquired, at length, after a pause, and lifting 
her eyes earnestly to his face. 

“Is any one so?” he replied, while a slight shade crossed his 
features. “ I am certainly not less happy than the generality of 
men. I have plenty of interest in life; I enjoy society — have ambi- 
tion to fulfill — bright prospects for the future.” 

Fridoline shook her head. She had heard rumors of Philip’s 
hasty, ill-assorted marriage, and his reply told her that his pleasures 
were not in his home.” 

“ I see,” she remarked, and asked no more questions. They 
went on quietly conversing upon subjects unconnected with them- 
selves, and, at last, among other names, that of Celeste was men- 
tioned. 

“ Poor Celeste!” said Fridoline. 

“ Why do you thus pity her?” returned Philip. 

“ She seems so perfectly contented— so really happy in her life. 
You smile at my reason, but you do not know Celeste as I do. 
When I was utterly friendless in London, I was taken ill, a few 
days after my first appearance, with an inflammation on the chest — 
the effect, I suppose, of excitement and exposure to night air. 
Celeste heard 1 was alone, and visited and nursed me, and gave up 
her gay parties to make my sick-room cheerful. Then I found out 
what a good heart and kindly feeling lie beneath all her little false 
affections; and I am sorry now to think that Celeste should, after 
all, be so perfectly contented with the life of an actress.” 

“Celeste is very entertaining,” said Philip. “How charming 
she was the night we first met Miss Elmslie, at her house!” 

“ Oh, how do you like Rose Elmslie?” cried Fridoline, suddenly, 
scanning Philip’s face as she spoke. She thought she detected a 
slight change of color there. 

“ There can be but one opinion,” he replied, “ she is surpassingly 
lovely.” 

“ Of course— do you like her?” 


76 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIPPE. 


‘‘ Really, Fridoline, I can not say that I dislike Miss Elmslie. 
Poor tiling! one must regret that, young and beautiful as she is, she 
has chosen a life so full of temptations as hers.” 

“Temptations!” echoed Fridoline, scornfully. “Yes, you are 
right. Our life has temptations to such as Rose Elmslie, though to 
me they are horrors. Well, as you will not be candid, I will. I 
was interested in that girl’s story, and wished to know her; but the 
moment I met her I felt an ‘ ehignment ’ — I don’t know your word 
in English — toward her, that I have never lost. Her beauty is ex- 
traordinary; but when I look at her fixedly, she grows hideous to 
me. Either what she is, or what she will be, makes me shrink away 
from her.” 

Philip thought Fridoline harsh, and could not at all agree with 
her opinions of the poor little dancer, and gradually their conversa- 
tion turned again to other things. Fridoline talked of her childhood 
(an unusual confidence for her), in a quiet old country house, where 
they had seven months of bright intense winter, and five of summer 
and fiowers; and where, until she was fifteen, she had never known 
more of the world than going on Sunday to the village church, three 
miles distant; or more gayety than the midsummer’s night festival 
among the peasants in the mountains. Then she made Philip tell 
of his own childish days; and her eyes glistened when she heard 
him regret that he could only just remember his mother. 

“You are happy,” she murmured, “ very happy in that remem- 
brance of her. Would God I had the same!” 

“ Have you no mother, Fridoline?” He was sorry for the ques- 
tion, when he saw the spasm of agony which suddenly contracted 
her features. ^ 

“None,” she replied, with a hoarse voice and bloodless lip. 
“ Let us speak of other things; I know not why I spoke of home, 
or of my childhood.” 

And, with a wonderful effort over herself, she began speaking 
upon some indifferent subject; and, in a few minutes, had regained 
her usual lively strain. The hours passed by unheeded; for no one 
ever remembered time in the society of Fridoline. All that in usual 
conversation is tame and common, vanished away in the light thrown 
over the most trivial subjects by her brilliant fancy — her wit — her 
quick insight — and the natural eloquence, wliich, even in a foreign 
language, could find words always expressive — always ready. And 
Philip, who detested what are generally styled clever women, forgot 
that he was listening to one in little Fridoline. At length the west- 
ern sun threw long, slanting shadows across the heath, and he began 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


77 


to think that he ought not to trespass longer on her time, of which 
every moment was so valuable. He was just preparing to say so, 
when a sudden noise arose in the household, and Fridoline sprung 
to her feet. 

“ Excuse me for a minute,” she exclaimed; ‘‘ Hulda is distribut- 
ing some of her hourly injustice among my creatures, and I must 
interfere. She sits at work in the kitchen, and hears a low, ominous 
sound under the table, without deigning to notice it. The sound 
deepens — then comes Bess’s well-known hiss — then screams from 
the cats — and when the hawk is flapping his wings with passion — 
the cats locked in a perfect embrace of hatred — and Karl flying 
round and round, gnashing his teeth at everybody, Hulda rises, and, 
with the nearest weapon that comes to hand, chastises them all 
round, and then turns them into the garden. But I never permit it 
when I am at home; for it is impossible they are all wrong and they 
know when they are punished unjustly.” 

She ran lightly down-stairs, and Philip soon heard her in high 
discussion with Hulda, in some foreign language, which, spoken by 
Fridoline, sounded musical. Then the voices became fainter, as they 
went off into the back- garden — probably after the banished creat- 
ures — and. Anally, Fridoline remained away so long, that Philip 
thought he would himself go in search of her. There were two 
doors, both on the same side of the room, one leading into the pas- 
sage, the other to Fridoline’s sleeping-room; and, not having noticed 
at which he entered, Philip accidentally opened the wrong one. He 
iastantly drew back: but the momentary glance he caught, was of 
something so white and fresh, that he held the handle of the lock 
irresolute, and, Anally, took a fuller view of the little room. It was 
plain as her sitting-room, and as unlike the apartment of an actress. 
There were no untidy remains of finery — no cheval-glass — no filigree 
bottles — no signs of theatrical costume. On the dressing-table a 
cup with violets in it was the only ornament; on the other side of 
the glass lay a large clasped book. A ■white French bed stood in 
one comer of the room, and immediately opposite, so that it was the 
first and last object upon which the eyes of the young actress must 
daily rest, hung an exquisite copy of one of Guido’s pictures: the 
head of a dying Christ. 

Philip felt strangely moved; and, impelled by a feeling that he 
could not withstand, he walked softly to the dressing-table and un- 
clasped the book, which bore marks of being better read than any 
of those down-stairs. It was a Hew Testament, and on the title page 
was written, in French, “Fridoline — on her tenth birthday.” A 


78 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


slight knowledge of northern languages enabled Philip to discover 
that the Testament was written in Swedish, and printed at Chris- 
tiania; so Norway, after all, was Fridoline’s country. A black 
book-marker worked at one end with a cross, was in the book, and 
Philip turned to the page where it was placed. It was the story of 
that repentant Magdalene from whom He, in His perfect purity, 
did not turn away, and the leaf was actually worn and blistered 
with tears, as though daily read and wept over. Philip closed the 
book, and quickly retreated from the poor girl’s room, with a feel- 
ing of compunction at having thus unwittingly discovered one of 
the secrets of her life — then he descended to join her in the garden. 
But in those few minutes his interest in her was increased tenfold, 
for he knew that, whatever had been her history, whatever her 
knowledge of vice — whose recollection still seemed to weigh so heav- 
ily upon her — Fridoline was now a pure and sinless being. 

When the sun had set, and the moon was just rising over the 
trees, Philip bade her good-night at the little garden gate. 

‘‘ May your next birthday prove as happy to you, dear Fridoline, 
as this one has been to me,” were his last words when they parted. 

She stood long watching his figure till it was lost in the deepening 
shadows of the heath. Then she prepared to enter; but the cottage 
looked very dark. 

“ To work,” she said, and an almost stern expression came over 
her features. To work; I have nothing to do with such feelings. 
My life has henceforth only one object — to work, and toil, and win 
money.” And all the youthful beauty was gone from her face, as 
she entered, and passed quickly into her study. Long after mid- 
night the light still shone from Fridoline’s window, while she 
walked up and down the room, with her eyes heavy, and her whole 
frame wearied, but still patiently learning her long r51e for the 
morrow. 


CHAPTER X. 

The London season drew to a close — that sweet time of early 
summer, when Nature is in her youngest beauty, and every hedge 
and field laden with freshness, but which English people choose to 
spend in town. 

Philip was going on in his usual life; he was, however, thinking 
earnestly of beginning another work, and was undecided how and 
where to spend the summer. He longed for quiet — to be away 
from the St. Legers, and even from his own friends for a time; but 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIFFE. 


79 


still he hesitated what plan to adopt. He always treated his wife 
with courtesy, and would himself make no proposal of actual separa- 
tion, although their life together had virtually long been one; and 
the most deadly of all, a separation under one roof. A circum- 
stance, however, occurred at this time which rendered him and Clara 
both more independent. Although the earl was himself irretrieva- 
bly ruined, in a younger branch of the St. Leger family there was 
no lack of wealth. It had entered it by the marriage of one of their 
house, some years before, with the daughter of a retired manu- 
facturer, and was now enjoyed by a cousin of Lord St. Leger — a 
widower, with an only son of about fourteen. It was in the power 
of the possessor to will the property to whom he chose; and this 
circumstance, as well as the two young, strong lives which stood 
between him and the succession, had prevented Lord St. Leger from 
ever speculating on any contingency that could affect himself. He 
was not on good terms even with his cousin, and the latter had a 
whole host of his wife’s relations ready to become his heirs in the 
event of the death of his own son. 

One morning, however — a few days before the time when Lord 
St. Leger had fixed, in his own mind, that exposure could no longer 
be avoided, nor angry creditors kept at bay — he found, on his 
breakfast-table, an ominous-looking letter, with immense black 
edges, and directed in a lawyer-like hand. As his eye glanced at 
the postmark, a strange, nervous tremor came over him, and he 
could scarcely break open the envelope. Like all gamblers, he was 
superstitious; and an unusual run of luck at hazard the last few 
days gave him a foreboding that his good star was in the ascendant. 
He was not mistaken. The letter was from his cousin’s solicitor, 
informing him of the melancholy death of his two relations, who 
had been drowned together by the upsetting of a boat on one of the 
Highland lakes; and it went on to state that his cousin, having made 
no provision for an event like the fearful one which had just oc- 
curred, Lord St. Leger as heir-at-law, inherited the whole of the 
property. The father, in his will, had left everything to his son, 
with the proviso that, should the latter inherit, and die before at- 
taining his majority, the money should then be divided between 
several of his late wife’s relations, who were named. The catas- 
trophe, however, which ended both lives, had been watched by a 
knot of spectators from the beach; and there was ample testimony 
to prove that the boy disappeared, never to rise again, on the first 
upsetting of the boat, while his father, who could swim, was seen 
for several minutes vainly battling with the waves, which at length 


80 


PHILIP EABiq'SCLIFFE. 


overcame him. The son, therefore, had never inherited; and 
through this slender point of law. Lord St. Leger found himself, at 
the very moment when his reputation was about to be blasted to the 
world, suddenly possessed of a large, unincumbered property. 

Earnscliffe, without any latent thought for himself, was undis- 
guisedly glad at this sudden turn of events. He had long known 
that ruin and disgrace were hanging over his father-in-law, and this 
had made him considerate to Clara far beyond what her open and 
almost insulting coldness toward himself deserved. But with this 
new accession of wealth in her family, everything was changed, 
and with no feeling of self-reproach, he might now see his haughty 
wife return to the protection of her parents. Clara’s pride, how- 
ever, still revolted against any open separation; and, miserable as 
was her married life, she could not determine upon so^rave a step 
as herself proposing to leave her husband’s house. Soon after their 
cousin’s death, the St. Legers determined upon going abroad to 
spend the remainder of the summer and autumn, and her mother 
invited Clara to accompany them to some of the German baths — for 
Lord St. Leger’s first use of his wealth was, of course, to renew his 
acquaintance with Homburg and Baden-Baden. With so plausible 
an excuse, for her health was really delicate, and being under the 
protection of her own parents, she felt that the world, or even her 
friends, could say nothing about this temporary separation, and she 
really longed for any relief from her present life. Accordingly she 
made the proposal to Philip, and read in his brightening face his 
ready acquiescence. 

“ I trust you will derive benefit from the change, Clara,” he re- 
plied. “ My own autumn will be passed in some quiet spot, where 
I can enter undisturbed upon my new work. In the winter we 
shall meet again.’’ 

They i)arted coldly, but as friends; and when Philip heard the 
last sounds of the carriage -wheels which bore away his wife and 
her parents, he gave a sigh of intense relief, and felt “lam free.” 

In the afternoon he went to call on his friend, Neville. He found 
the young artist in unbounded spirits; his large picture in the exhi 
bition was sold, and he had, that very day, received orders for two 
ibaore of similar size. 

“ Congratulate me! I am now on the high-road to fame, Earns- 
cliffe!” he exclaimed, as he shook Philip’s hand heartily. “ In an- 
other year I shall have realized enough money to enable me to go to 
Rome; two years I shall remain and study there, then return to 


PHILIP EARIISCLIPFE. 


81 


England, and, I firmly believe, be one of oiir first landscape paint- 
ers.” 

Philip warmly entered into his sanguine hopes, and sat long with 
his friend, who, with his accustomed energy, was already sketching 
the outline for one of his new pictures. 

‘‘ Yours is a happy life, Neville.” 

“Yes; some of my lonely hours, when I have been working at 
my pictures, and my recent ones of success, I would exchange with 
no man. But I have had years of toil — bitter toil and disappoint- 
ment — before attaining to even my present fame. There is so much 
mere mechanism for a painter to acquire before he can express his 
ideas. Look at yourself now; you are five or six years younger 
than I am, but your first book — written, as you have told me, with- 
out an exertion — made you celebrated.” 

The remark reminded Earnscliffe of Fridoline, and he repeated 
some of her observations on art to Neville. 

“She is a gifted little creature,” he replied; “but /beware of 
these long, lonely conversations, Phil. A woman like Fridoline 
would be the very devil to have in love with one. ” 

“There is no risk,” said Philip, gravely. “ Fridoline is not a 
girl to inspire any light sentiment, nor likely herself to fall in love 
with a married man. ’ ’ 

“ Ah, true! I beg both your pardons. The fact is, I never re- 
member that you are married. How is your domestic bliss getting 
on?” 

Philip mentioned the departure of his wife. 

“ And what are you going to do with your summer and your free- 
dom?” asked the artist; “ not waste them by staying at country- 
houses, I hope?” 

Philip said he wished to live in perfect solitude for some months 
while he worked at his new book. 

“ Then I have it all,” exclaimed Neville, throwing down his pen- 
cil, and seizing both Philip’s hands; “ we will go together, old fel- 
low. I will take you to my wild quarters among the Highlands, 
where I spent last autumn; and if you do not find them retired 
enough, you must indeed be fond of solitude. You can write— I 
sketch — and both forget, in the mountain air, and with nothing but 
Nature round us, our feverish town life, our friends, wives, ay, and 
Fridoline herself I ’ ’ 

“ I am ready,” returned Philip. And they entered so eagerly 
into their new plans that Neville soon abandoned his pencil, and, 
after changing his painting-blouse for a coat, proposed that they 


82 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


should walk out together in the Park. It was a hot, bright day, 
and all London seemed there. Carriages and equestrians crowded 
past in an unbroken stream; and Earnscliife’s hat was off repeated- 

ly- 

Hold it in your hand at once,” said Neville. “ How can you 
be at the trouble of uncovering every second, for all these people?” 

“It is one of the evils of society, 1 admit,” said Philip; “ but, 
still, unavoidable. Let us turn into one of the side- walks, where 
we shall be less disturbed.” 

At that moment a very dashing little equipage, with two showy 
black ponies, came along, clearing its way dexterously among the 
interminable labyrinth of wheels by which it was surrounded. It 
was driven by a lady, whose perfect sangfroid, and dress, and re- 
markable beauty drew every eye upon her. She was unaccom- 
panied, a diminutive page only sitting behind, but did not seem the 
least disconcerted at the admiration she attracted. 

“ Rose Elmslie, by Jove!” said Neville. “ Well, she is getting 
on. Who paid for all that, I wonder, Phil? Count B , I sup- 

pose, out of his Derby winnings.” 

Philip's eye marked her coldly, and he bit his lip, without an- 
swering. When she was quite close she perceived them, and col- 
ored scarlet as she bowed. Philip took his hat off to the ground; 
Neville nodded. 

“ Well, hang it, Phil! salute your own friends if you will, but I 
can not understand taking off your hat to a woman of that kind, as 
though she were a duchess.” 

‘ ‘ I am only just beginning to think that she is a woman of that 
kind,” said Philip, in a low voice. 

“ Why, what should she be? — poor, lovely, and a dancer — bah!” 

Earnscliffe took his friend’s arm, and they walked on to a retired 
part of Kensington Gardens, where they sat down to discuss their 
plans for the summer quietly. The artist continued in excellent 
spirits, but Philip seemed somewhat depressed, and even more anx- 
ious to get away from-town than his friend. 

“ Are you ‘ thinking of an absent spouse ’?” remarked Neville, 
at last. “ You seem to be very much out of spirits all at once!’' 

“ Not I. I am in remarkably good spirits, on the contrary.” 

“If it were possible — but no; the sight of that worthless young 
thing can not have had any effect upon.you.” 

“ If you mean Miss Elmslie by your polite term, undoubtedly 
not. Miss Elmslie is nothing to me.” 

“ And will continue so, I trust. She is of a worse description 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


83 


than Fridoline, or even Celeste. Tell me what your next hook is to 
he about. Do you sketch the entire outline before commencing as 
one does for a picture, or write on where j^our fancy leads you?” 

“ Oh! I shall write very differently this time. My first two hooks 
have succeeded as much from accident as merit — as much from 
their vices as their virtues. Now I must begin writing for real 
fame — for solid criticism.” 

And the afternoon passed by while they talked over their mutual 
hopes and projects. They dined afterward at Philip’s club, and 
in a few days were en route for Scotland. The remainder of the 
fine weather passed happily to them both. Each pursued his own 
occupation, absorbed and uninterrupted; but they had the com- 
panionship of kindred thought when they needed it, after work, and 
would wander for hours together among the mountains in the calm 
summer evenings. On Philip the change was most beneficial. He 
had a softer and more pliant nature than his friend, and his mind 
had lost more of its tone during its contact with the world, from the 
ready way he fell into the life of those around him. But this differ- 
ence was merely one of temperament. He had more real genius 
than the artist; and after a few weeks spent among this grand, still 
nature, Philip wrote with a 'fervor and inspiration far surpassing 
that in either of his former works. 

Neville studied foreground, noted atmospheric effects, and 
thought, as his sketches multiplied, of the pictures they would form 
and of his own fame. He had exactly the organization of a man 
who is to succeed in this world. SuflSicient genius, untiring indus- 
try, energy that no failure could damp,^ an iron frame, and a bound- 
less ambition. With Philip, to gaze at a golden sunset or mountain 
storm, was to unloose a fiood of unconscious poetry in his heart; 
and afterward he simply wrote down his thoughts as they existed, 
without labor, often without a single alteration, and always forget- 
ful of himself or his own success. With him the artist was lost in 
the art, and both at times in the source from whence came poet and 
inspiration alike. With Neville this was never the case. Possess- 
ing an exuberant fancy, he was not for one moment himself under 
the infiuence of his own imagination. He could conceive wild and 
beautiful pictures, and for his art had a really passionate love, but 
it all seemed unconnected, as it were, with his own personal exist- 
ence; and the artist ever remained a consistent, practical citizen of 
the world. He was the best friend and adviser possible for Philip, 
who- although he had conformed much more than Nfivilln tn the 
life of society, plunged into numneriess loiiies, irom wnicn tnedui}' 


84 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


had continued free, was yet a very child at heart, compared to the 
artist, and still possessed a hundred illusions which Neville had lost 
in his boyhood. For instance, bitter as had been his own short ex- 
perience of married life, Philip had still a firm belief in the exist- 
ence of pure and faithful love; a point on which his friend, if not 
skeptical, was cold and sarcastic, and in his new works wrote with 
enthusiasm on this subject, in spite of Neville’s criticisms. And 
often, when they walked silently under the starry summer night, 
he felt the mysterious workings of youth and love that were so 
strong within his own heart, and asked himself if they were never 
in this world to be satisfied — while he wrote of love and imagined 
it for others, was his own life to be spent only between the world, 
and the cold, dull tedium of his loveless marriage? But this was a 
theme he never entered upon with Neville. 

The autumn passed quickly away. The hills, from bright golden, 
had become brown, and the purple was gone from the heather; but 
at the beginning of November the friends still lingered in their 
Highland cottage, endeared to them both from the glowing thoughts 
of pen and pencil which had there had birth, and neither of them 
was anxious fo return to town. The days were, however, now very 
short, and the weather was so uncertain, that they at length unwill- 
ingly departed; Neville to his London lodging, and Philip to pay 
his uncle a long-promised visit. The St. Legers had not yet re- 
turned to England. 

During the autumn Philip had received occasional notes from his 
wife. They were, like herself, cold, abrupt, and uninteresting, and 
he did not read them twice; but in the one which awaited him on 
his arrival at Miles Earnscliffe’s, the first lines arrested his attention 
at once. Lady Clara announced that they would all be in London 
during the course of the month, and reminded Philip, at the expir- 
ation of the present term, to take on their house in Park Lane for 
the coming season. So his wife had still no wish for an open sepa- 
* ration? 


CHAPTER XI. 

Again the London season was at its height. 

Philip and Clara had met with a tolerable show of friendliness, 
on her return from Cermany, but he had soon merged again into his 
old life; and Clara, whose health appeared little improved, became 
more gloomy and taciturn than ever. Her father’s unlooked for ac- 
cession of wealth had only added to the bitterness which rankled in 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


85 


her heart about her marriage. She felt that, as the heiress of an 
immense fortune, she might have been spared the humiliation of 
stooping 1o win her young cousin, for the sake of his merchant- 
uncle’s money; and her mother came in for the full share of thanks, 
which she merited, as principal promoter of the marriage; and had 
to bear many a cold taunt from her daughter on the subject. 

In time, Clara went rarely even to her own parents’ house, more, 
rarely still into society. She shrunk, with a morbid feeling, from 
the scrutiny of her old friends; and her life was passed in hugging 
to her heart her disappointment and loneliness. She had no child 
to break the tedium of her long hours, and open the one warm 
spring of happiness left to many a deserted wife; few mental re- 
sources; no religion, beyond that of appearing in her pew every 
Sunday, to listen to some fashionable preacher; while, week after 
week, she became more fully sensible of her husband’s indifference, 
and the life of eternal dissipation he was leading. His new work 
was in the press, and great things were expected of it. Philip him- 
self felt that it was far superior to either of his former ones, and his 
own opinion was confirmed by the friendly criticisms he had re- 
ceived on the manuscript. He had much to do in correcting proofs, 
and so on; but still found ample time for society, especially that of 
the coulisses, which now appeared to possess a renewed and power- 
ful fascination to the young author. 

Neville, meantime, was working, during every moment of day- 
light, on his pictures. He gave up parties of all kinds, and scarcely 
even went to the theater, that his head might be more clear, his 
hand more steady, for his morning’s work; and every afternoon 
after dusk he took long walks into the country, for the sake of his 
mental and bodily health. Everything he did was subservient to 
one object— he must complete his two pictures before the exhibition, 
be paid for them, and start for Rome; and not every pleasure in 
London could have drawn him aside from the steady execution of 
his plans. He had not seen very much of Philip since their return 
from Scotland. He had himself no time for visiting; and every 
moment of Earnscliffe’s life was so taken up with some new ex- 
citement, that his visits to his friend’s quiet studio were far less .fre- 
quent than formerly. Besides this, Neville, on the plea of his senior- 
ity, always gave Philip quiet lectures about the way he was frit- 
tering away his time, which the latter did not at all relish, especial- 
ly as he himself well knew the truth of these remarks. 

One evening, Neville was returning from a long, quick walk on 
Hampstead Heath, his step firm, his head erect, and his arms folded. 


86 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


as was his wont, when he saw a figure some fifty yards ahead. He 
thought he recognized the slight form, the slow, graceful walk, and 
quickened his pace. It was Earnscliffe. 

'‘Good-evening, Phil.” 

“ Hallo! Neville — what, you here?” 

“Ay, ' que diahle faites vous dans cetie galereV I suppose you 
mean to say. Well, I have been doing as you should — walking 
alone on the heath to cool my head, after the day’s work. And 
you?” 

“ I? — I have just been walking home with Fridoline,” answered 
Philip, hesitating a little. He did not much like talking about her 
to Neville. 

“ Oh! how is she getting on, by the way? I have no time for 
theaters and actresses, and such things now.” 

“ Fridoline is, as usual, working hard at her profession, looking 
paler and older, I think, and more strange and lonely in her life 
than she ever was.” 

“ Only diversifying it by twilight walks on the heath with Philip 
Earnscliife, ” added the artist. “ Poor philosophic little Fridoline! 
Well, I don’t think you are in any danger from that quarter, what- 
ever she may be.” 

“ In danger from her!— none, I should trust,” returned Philip, 
with a short laugh, and seemingly quite disposed to change the 
subject. 

“ I hope not, I am sure. But, independently of Fridoline — who 
is about the best of them— you are wasting your fine energies among 
all these people, when you should be thinking of your art alone. 
That worthless young Elmslie now — ” 

“ Neville—” . 

“ Don’t be in a rage, Philip, or I shall really think badly of you.” 

“ I am not the least in a rage; but I will not hear you speak in 
those terms of poor Rose. She was brought up to a life she now 
hates, when a mere child; she is lovely, young, surrounded with 
temptation, and therefore you condemn her!” 

“ Not in the least. I think her conduct is excessively natural, 
and like that of every other dancer in the world. I made use of the 
word ‘ worthless ’ only because, for her age, she possesses a really 
unusual amount of deceit, in addition to her beauty, and tempta- 
tion and sorrow for the life she leads. Well, it is wonderful how 
these women all pitch upon you for the repository of their pious 
compunctions, and how you believe them. First, Fridoline, now 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIPFE. 


87 


young Elmslie; I suppose wo shall have Celeste herself next upon 
j-^our list of penitents. What an absurd world we live in!” 

Although Philip defended Rose Elmslie so warmly, it pained him 
to hear his poor little friend Fridoline classed with her. He felt 
that the distance between them was immeasurable; but feared pro- 
voking Neville’s sarcasm by sayiog so. 

“ How is Rose deceitful?” he asked after a pause. 

“Only in talking sentiment, and regretting her life with you in 
the morning, and receiving bracelets from Count B in the after- 

noon, while she really laughs at you both with somebody else after- 
ward. But think as you like, you know; I shall certainly retain 
my opinions too. ” 

Earnscliffe got rather angry, and again began defending Miss 
Elmslie with all the vehemence of a champion who really doubts 
the right of his cause; but Neville interrupted him. 

“Let us change the subject, Phil; you are a perfect boy, still, 
and can not learn experience as quickly asl did; however, you will 
buy it at last — and in the meantime do not quarrel with one friend 
for all the actresses in creation. Toward the end of May, I think I 
shall start for Switzerland, and shall then remain two years in 
Italy; so I shall not see much more of you. But write sometimes, 
and tell me how all this life of yours ends, and which was right — 
you or I.” 

Philip’s annoyance was quickly over, and Neville was soon talk- 
ing eagerly of the progress of his pictures. Then he inquired how 
soon the new book would appear. “In about a month, ” returned 
Philip. “It is far better written than either of my former ones; 
consequently, I ought to have good hopes of success; and yet — I 
know not why — I have a sort of foreboding that it will be, not, per- 
haps, a failure, but, at all events, very differently received to the; 
first two.” 

Neville tried to reason him out of this feeling, and they parted, 
with their accustomed friendly shake of the hand, at the Regent’s 
Circus, where their roads separated. Neville went off, happy, to his 
dark, comfortless lodgings, and Philip returned home to dinner. By 
some extraordinary chance he dined tete-d-tete with his wife, almost 
for the first time since their honey-moon, and they both felt strange 
in each other’s society. 

“Have you an engagement for this evening, Clara?” he asked, 
during the course of dinner. She looked up astonished. 

“ None. You know I hav^ almost given qp going out, now that 
my health is so bad. ” 


88 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


“You will not go to the opera, then?” 

“ Certainly not. ” She felt positively bewildered at this sudden 
interest in her movements. 

“ Well, you are right. It is a stupid opera this evening, and 
there is no ballet; though, perhaps, you do not care for that.” 

Clara made no reply; and her husband, after one or two languish- 
ing attempts at conversation, became silent also. 

After dinner Philip’s cab came round almost immediately. Clara 
was in the drawing-room, and happened to be standing at the win- 
dow, which she had just opened to place a bouquet of flowers on the 
balcony, in the fresh air, at the moment when Philip left the house. 
She saw him jump in, and then, without any intention of listening, 
accidentally heard him say to the servant, “ (5h, just go back for 
the latch-key, I have forgotten it; and no one need sit up, of course. 
The opera will not be over till late.” The groom returned directly, 
and a second afterward, the cab drove off. Clara then drew in her 
head and closed the window — there was a slight tinge of color in 
her cheek. “ So he is going to this stupid opera without a ballet!” 
she thought. “ I wonder what gave him such an extreme wish to 
know if I intended being there. ’ ’ She inherited a good deal of 
Lady St. Leger’s sharpness in drawing unfavorable conclusions from 
a word or a look; and, after considering a few minutes by the fire, 
felt certain that Philip had some hidden reason for his inquiries. 
She rang the bell. “ I shall require the carriage in half an hour, ” 
she said to the servant who entered. “ I am going to the opera 
this evening.” Then she went up into her dressing-room, and or- 
dered her maid to dress her quickly, as she was going to the theater. 
Her plain toilet was soon completed, and in less than half an hour 
she was again in the drawing-room, walking up and down, and 
waiting, with an agitated impatience that she could not have ex- 
plained to lierself, for the announcement of the carriage. 

The second act was just beginning as Clara reached the theater. 
She was dressed plainly in high pearl colored silk, without ornament 
or flowers in her hair, and looked altogether so like an invalid that 
her entrance was unnoticed, and no glass was directed a second time 
to her face. Only a few of her old friends, when they happened to 
remark her, said, “How awfully dear Clara has changed!” And 
one or two of her husband’s acquaintance who knew her by sight, 
exclaimed, “ Good heavens! can that pale, wretched-looking woman 
be young Earnscliffe’s wife?” 

Exactly opposite to her was the St. Legers’ box, and Clara saw 
her mother, all diamonds and pink satin, and looking quite young 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


89 

and smiling, as she talked to Prince K , who was by her side. 

A bitter sense came over her of the contrast between Lady St. Leger 
and herself, and she thought, “ It would be better for me if I had 

been like her. With her jewels and dress, and Prince K , and 

all the world seeing her, my mother is perfectly happy; though her 
husband is playing away his very life at the hazard -table, and her 
only child made miserable by her own plans. I hope she may not 
see me to-night!” For, sensitively alive to her own deserted posi- 
tion, and her pale, worn cheeks, Clara shrunk almost with a feeling 
of shame from recognition. 

Her eye glanced steadily among the stalls, where she had gen 
erally seen her husband, but he was not in his accustomed place. 

“ I shall see him by the side of Lady N ,” she thought; and she 

swept with her glass the long tiers of boxes — brilliant with flowers, 
and toilets, and fair faces; still, she saw him nowhere. Lady 

H , in all her jewels and beauty, was quietly talking, wonderful 

to say, to her own husband!— and at length wearying of the vain 
search, Clara gave it up for the present, and directed her attention 
to the scene. Philip had called the opera a stupid one, but it con- 
tained some of Meyerbeer’s most wild and spirituf^l thoughts; and 
Clara, who had a natural love for music (though, like everything 
else, it had been as much crushed as possible by education ” and 
having to practice on the piano for four hours a day during eight 
years of her life), now forgot herself for awhile, in listening to the 
notes of the great master, and the sweetest of all human voices — 
that of Mario. 

The second act terminated; and in the interval. Lady Clara again 
sought her husband among the crowds of faces which thronged the 
vast building. She thought every one in the theater seemed un- 
usually smiling and gay, and that she was the only neglected wom- 
an there. As she looked, one by one, at the young men in the pit- 
stalls, thinking that Philip might perhaps be among them, although 
he was not in his accustomed place, she observed that numbers of 
glasses were upturned to one stage -box — the opposite side of the 
house, and on so high a range that Lady Clara had not even thought 
of lifting her aristocratic eyes in its direction— and that many smiles 
and significant looks seemed to be callecf forth by its occupants. A 
feeling of curiosity made her raise her own glass to this box, where 
she saw a face of such surpassing loveliness as even arrested her 
own cold admiration — a face which, in all that crowded house of 
high-born beauty, had no peer. After scanning the features for a 
fow seconds, it occurred to her that she had seen them before; and 


90 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


; she then remembered that they were those of Miss Elmslie, the new 
danseusey whom she had twice seen perform. Miss Elmslie was 
talking gayly to some one beside her, but her head concealed the 
face of her companion from Clara. She felt her gaze strangely fas- 
cinated to this girl’s box — although not connecting it in the least 
with her search for Philip — and waited patiently to catch a glimpse 
of its other occupant. Rose was dressed in pale blue, with camel- 
lias and silver in her bright hair, and a little white silk opera-cloak, 
falling back over her shoulders. She was, at this time, about 
twenty, but scarcely appeared so old— her slight form, delicate feat- 
ures, brilliant complexion and large blue eyes being all of that cast 
which generally give an appearance of extreme youth. She held a 
profusion of rare hot- house flowers in her hand, and appeared very 
animated — smiling and blushing, and repeatedly hiding her face in 
her rich bouquet at her companion’s remarks. Suddenly she half 
stood up to look at something in a distant part of the house, and, 
after a minute, reseated herself with some slight change of attitude, 
so that the face of her companion was left fully visible to Lady 
Clara. It was her husband. 

So this was the cause of his inquiries about Clara’s movements! 
She had long known that Philip was more than indifferent to her, 
lhat his life was the careless and dissipated one of most young men of 
his age; but that was all. Now she saw him publicly in the com- 
pany of a dancer — and to be an actress of any kind, was, according 
to her ideas, for a woman to be utterly worthless — with all the 
world seeing him, and remarking, as she thought, with malicious 
pleasure, upon the scene. At that unfortunate moment some people 
in the next box began talking about Earnscliffe. They were per- 
fect strangers to her, of course, and probably had not even noticed 
their pale, sickly looking neighbor. 

“Oh, yes!” said an old gentleman of the party, in answer to 
■some remark she had not heard; “ he married a daughter of Lord 
St. Leger, and dearly she must pay for her folly in marrying a 
genius. Such a dissipated life as he leads — always among actors 
and those sort of people! There, he is at this moment sitting by 
Miss Elmslie, the dancer, while his wife, poor creature! is probably 
watching it from an opposite box.” 

“ Oh, where is he? — where is Philip Earnscliffe?” asked a young 
girl, leaning forward; “ I should like so much to see him!” 

The gentleman pointed out Earnscliffe, and some one remarked 
on Rose Elmslie’s great beauty. 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


91 


“And how handsome he is! how animated he looks!” said the 
young voice. “ Is his wife pretty, I wonder?” 

“ Oh, no!” answered anotlier lady. “ I saw her once at a con- 
cert. Quite a pale, looking woman, and such a very discon- 

tented expression of face!” 

The blood seemed to grow like ice at Clara’s heart, and her 
cheeks were white with wounded pride, as she listened. But she 
did not leave the house; she sat throughout the whole remainder of 
the opera, unnoticed, alone; with her cold hands clasped tightly to- 
gether, and her eyes fixed upon Philip’s handsome, animated face. 
She watched his attentive manner, his attitude, and could fancy the 
very words he was saying: and then— but with a less deep scorn — 
she scanned the exquisite features of his companion, and the half- 
averted, half-smiling way she listened to him. 

The performance went on. The fullest chorus, and the whole 
united strength of the orchestra, were joined in the final scene; but 
Clara heard it not. Those few hateful remarks which she had 
caught, alone rang in her ear; and among all the hundreds of hu- 
man beings around her, she only saw two faces— Miss Elmslie’s and 
Philip’s. No woman ever went through a truer martyrdom than 
did Lady Clara, during that evening. 

To do Philip justice, he was incapable of willingly outraging his 
wife’s feelings; and, had he seen Clara, would that second have 
quitted Rose Elmslie. But he believed her at home, as she had told 
him she would be, and had never even glanced toward the box she 
occupied. And Rose was in her most charming, winning mood, 
talking so prettily and innocently, and saying she detested Count 

B , and how much she wished she could leave the stage forever. 

No wonder Philip’s attention was fully taken up, and that he for- 
got all Neville’s odious suspicions. He was looking on one of the 
loveliest forms ever given to a woman, and trying to believe that it 
inclosed a similar soul. 

The opera concluded without Clara being aware of it, and as there 
was no ballet, every one rose to leave. Then she saw Philip help 
Miss Elmslie to draw her little dainty cloak over her white should- 
ers, and hold the bouquet for her while she fastened her glove — pay- 
ing her all those nameless attentions which are more galling to a 
jealous woman when actually witnessed, than it would be merely 
to hear of some open dereliction on the part of her husband. Final- 
ly, they both left the box together, and she was reminded that she 
too must leave and go home. She stood up; but her head was gid- 
dy, and her limbs felt weak. An elderly person, who had once. 


92 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


been her governess, and still lived with her as companion, had ac- 
companied Lady Clara to the theater, and she was forced to lean 
upon her arm for support; but she trembled so that her attendant 
inquired if she were ill. 

Let us wait here until the crush is over,” Clara answered, re- 
seating herself where the shadow of the box prevented her from be- 
ing seen. “The heat has overcome me, and I am not well this 
evening.” 

They remained for nearly a quarter of an hour, while Clara called 
all her pride to her aid in the struggle to nerve herself; and then, when 
there was less chance of meeting any one she knew, she drew the 
hood of her cloak over her face, and with a firmer step entered the 
lobby, which was now nearly vacant. She got to her carriage un- 
noticed, and drove home. On their way she spoke to her compan- 
ion about the opera in a cheerful voice, and her hand no longer 
trembled. Every sign of weakness was over. When she reached 
the house she went up to the drawing-room, and ordered tea to be 
brought, with her usual calm manner; and when the servant re- 
entered, he found his mistress seated at the table, reading. She 
drank a cup of tea, and attempted to eat, but the food seemed to 
choke her; and, after a sufficiently long pause had elapsed, she 
again rang the bell. Then, when her attendants had finally left her 
alone, she placed herself near the fire and warmed her death-cold 
hands, while she brooded over the cruel shock her pride had sus- 
tained. 

That she would leave him — never remain another day under Phil- 
ip ’s roof — was her first fixed resolution. Many wives, even where 
previous affection existed, might, in all their heat of wounded feel- 
ing, have resolved the same. But Clara’s was not a nature ever to 
swerve from a determined course; and as she sat thus alone, and 
thought of all the remarks that Philip’s open devotion to an actress 
must have excited among her own friends that evening, her feeling 
toward him strengthened into actual hate, and her lips grew 
blanched and rigid in their stern expression. 

At length she went up to her own room, and rang for her maid to 
undress her,*as usual; but when the girl had left the room, she rose 
again from her bed, and, quietly locking the door, lighted a candle, 
and partially dressed herself in a loose morning wrapper. Then 
she began opening her drawers and cases, and drew from them, one 
after another, everything of value that she could consider as in any 
way belonging to, .or connected with, her marriage. 

One or two notes from Philip, written during their courtship, a 


4 


PHILIP EAR^rSCLIFFE. 


93 


locket containing his hair, and a miniature of him, she laid together, 
and gazed at them silently for a few nioments. Something softer 
came over her face as she recalled that evening when he had gen- 
erously sacrificed himself for her in the impulse of boyish kindness, 
and she paused, and thought of her childish days when her cousin 
had been her only friend. But then she saw him again as she had 
done only an hour before — flushed and animated, and whispering 
to Rose Elmslie — and rising abruptly, she flung all the little relics 
of his false love upon fhe fire. The flames danced and crackled 
over them in a second, and she watched with a bitter laugh the last 
sparks die out in her husband’s love-letters before they became a 
mere cloud of gray film. Then she turned to her other work. The 
braeelets, the tiaras, the rings — all the valuable jewels that she had 
received from Philip or his uncle— she divided from her own trink- 
ets, and making them into a package, directed them to “ Philip 
Earnscliffe, Esq.,” but without note or explanation of any kind; 
and after this she lay down on her bed and watched. 

In an hour or two she heard . Philip’s quiet step ascending the 
stairs, and the door close of his dressing-room. Her face grew a 
shade wliiter as she murmured — “ Yes — for the last time.” And 
then she turned her head upon her pillow, and waited for the day. 


CHAPTER XIL 

Litti.e thinking of all the next twelve hours had in store for 
him, Philip went down early the following morning to call on his 
uncle. He had not seen his wife, who was indeed still in her own 
apartment, ripening the project which she meant in the course of 
the day to carry into execution — that of leaving Philipps roof for- 
ever. When Clara’s passions were roused, they were like her fa- 
ther’s. Her jealousy of the previous evening — grown even more 
bitter during the long watches of the night — had deepened her for- 
mer indifference to her husband into actual loathing; and she longed 
for the pioment when she could disclose her scorn for him with her 
own lips. Still Clara had no wish to play the role of a mere jealous 
wife; and she had turned over in her mind a dozen different ways 
of announcing her intention, without fixing upon one that should 
sufficiently wound his pride, yet not lower her own. She shrunk, 
too, from the idea of again returning to her parent’s house and the 
companionship of Lady St. Leger, although she felt it was the only 
alternative she could look forward to on leaving her own home, and 


94 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


that even this was better than remaining longer with her unfaithful 
husband. 

Meanwhile Philip rode slowly along into the country. It was a 
gray cpld day; leaden masses of clouds covered the whole sky, 
borne slowly along in an English east wind, and the trees and dis- 
tant country seemed one uniform tint of brown. It may have been 
the influence of the weather, or perhaps the natural after-effects of 
the previous evening’s excitement; but Philip’s spirits were unac- 
countably depressed this morning. He seemed unable to throw off 
the weight that was upon him, and did not once urge his horse out 
of a walk until he reached the lodge of Miles Earnscliffe’s place, 
where, for the first time, he attempted to rouse himself a little, and 
cantered up the avenue. He found old Miles confined to the house. 
His illness was not serious; but still it was enough to make him 
fretful and impatient. He was so used to a life of activity, that it 
galled him to remain idle in his easy-chair, instead of being out and 
busy in his grounds; and his reception of his nephew was not par- 
ticularly amiable. 

o Well, Phil, I thought you were never coming near me again; 
every week I see less of you now. But you knew I was ill, and 
therefore it was your duty to come, whatever your inclination 
prompted.” 

“I have been really much engaged, uncle,” returned Philip. 
‘‘ My new book, you know, is in the press, and I have a great deal 
to do in correcting proofs, and so on; when it is out I shall have 
more leisure time. ’ ’ 

“ Um — well, I hope you are always as profitably engaged, though 
I doubt it,” answered Miles. “ I suppose your wife takes up a good 
deal of your time, too?” 

“ Not much of that, sir, I think.” Philip saw his uncle’s hu- 
mor, and prepared himself for a pleasant day of it. 

“ Oh, I am sorry to hear it. As you would marry at your age, 
you should have tried to make her happy. How is Clara?” 

“ Much the same, thank you; she is never very strong, and stays 
so entirely at home, that she has no chance of getting more spirits 
or color.” 

“ Philip,” said Miles, sternly, and raising himself up grimly on 
one elbow, as was his habit when in a bad temper, “ I believe your 
wife is a miserable woman, and that it is all your, fault. You are 
just as dissipated, and worse, than you were before you married. I 
know more about you than you think, and I tell you frankly, I 
don’t admire your conduct! ” 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


95 


“lam perfectly aware of my folly in marrying so young, sir,’" 
returned Philip, bitterly. 

After a pause. Miles went on — 

“ I never saw such a changed face as Clara’s. She was never 
particularly blooming, but now she looks ten years older, and so 
wan and indifferent to everything. What is the matter with her, 
Philip? Perhaps there is a prospect of my having a grandnephew, 
eh?” 

“ God forbid!” said Philip, hastily. 

“ Well, a mighty pious aspiration, certainly. People in general 
are pleased at the idea of having children.” 

“ Ay, sir, when there is a home for them to be brought up in!” 

“ And have you no home, Philip? Do you want a larger house 
and establishment, or are you too proud to call yours a home, be- 
cause you merely maintain it upon your allowance? You know 
well that my money will be all yours at my death, and that what- 
ever you or Clara want you have only to ask for.” 

“ No,” answered Philip; “you are already too generous. Ire- 
quire nothing more in the world that money can purchase. When 
I spoke of home, I meant that union of heart and feeling which 
never has been, and never can be, between my wife and myself. If 
Heaven had given me a child, it would have been, of course, brought 
up by • its mother, and taught from its birth to be as indifferent tO’ 
me as she is herself— indeed, I sometimes think Clara’s feelings to- 
ward me are now those of actual dislike — ” 

“ And whose doing is all this, Phil?” inquired Miles. “ She may 
be cold, I don’t deny it; it is her nature; and you knew that you 
were marrying the daughter of Lord and Lady St. Leger. But it is 
not Clara’s fault, that, as a married man, you continue your old 
bachelor life, and are always philandering about after actresses and 
such rubbish, when you should be at home with her, or coming to> 
see me. Hugh! hugh!” He coughed dismally, and plunged the- 
poker into the fire, before returning fo the charge; but, greatly tO' 
Philip’s relief, who did not relish the tone of his uncle’s lecture,., 
was interrupted by the entrance of the servant with newspapers. 

“ Shall I read to you?” he added, taking up the “ Times.” 

“Yes. I am getting so blind I can not even read for myself 
now” — (he had wonderfully good eyes for his time of life, buf- 
could never be prevailed upon to use spectacles) — “ and try to find 
something worth listening to, ” 

Philip accordingly began, and had read the leading article half 
through, when Miles interrupted him with — 


9G 


PHILIP EARI^'SCLIFFE. 


“ Can’t you find anything but that political stuff , nephew? What 
do I care about Lord John, or Lord Aberdeen, or which of them 
gets the head place in the mismanagement of the country? Do find 
something of general interest.” 

‘‘ The parliamentaiy report.” 

“ Worse still! There is meaning, at least, in what the ‘ Times ’ 
writes, but none in those endless speeches; and, besides, I hate all 
that sickening trash of ‘the honorable member to my right,’ and 
‘ my noble friend in the opposition.’ Read me the city article.” 

“ Stay, sir, here is the arrival of the Indian mail,” said Philip, as 
he turned the paper. 

” Well, then, read that, of course. Why did you not find it at 
once?” 

Philip glanced his eye rapidly down the column before commenc- 
ing aloud, and after some unimportant paragraplis, some name 
arrested his attention. He began to read, and his hand trembled a 
little, then he flushed deeply, but, as he went on, every particle of 
color left his face, and he became deadly pale. 

“ What ails you, Phil, that you change color so?” said his uncle, 
rising, all his kind manner returning in a moment. “You are ill, 
my boy,” and he advanced toward him. 

Philip grasped the paper tighter, as though to prevent the other 
from reading it, and looking up in his face, faltered out — . 

“Uncle, there is news — bad news — from Bombay — ” Here he 
broke down. Miles’s face grew white as his nephew’s, and an in- 
stinctive presentiment flashed across him. But the old man’s brave 
nature did not falter. 

“ Give me the paper, Philip,” he said, in his usual firm voice. 
“ I can read it myself.” 

Philip let him take it passively from him and covered his face, 
while Miles read the fatal paragraph. It was the intelligence of the 
failure of one of the largest Bombay banks, in which the greatest 
part of Mr. Earnscliffe’s immense capital still floated, and Philip 
knew that he was comparatively ruined. He dared not look up, but 
kept his face still buried in his hands, without the courage to speak, 
when a sound made him start in terror to his uncle’s side. 

It was a fearful sound — half-sob, half-groan — wrung from the 
bosom of an iron man in his first moment of despair, and Philip 
prayed that he might never hear the like again. He looked in his 
uncle’s face; it was white, and drawn as though paralyzed, and 
under a hideous apprehension; Philip cried — “ Oh! speak to me — 
one word, dear uncle — only one word!” 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


97 


“ It is all ^?one,” said Miles, in a low, hoarse whisper. I am a 
beggar; help me to a chair, and leave me. I would be alone.” 

Philip obeyed him instantly. He knew that strong, proud nature 
would shrink from any eye being upon him in his agony, and hav- 
ing assisted him to his chair, he walked to the deep bay-window of 
the library, and remained there silent for almost an hour. During 
all this time Miles Earnscliffe never moved — once only did he 
groan. He sat alone in his ruin, as he had been in the weary road 
to success, and the iron entered into his soul in silence. 

And Philip — in that terrible hour, what were his thoughtse His 
own fall from being Miles Earnscliffe’s heir to poverty --the taunts 
in his own household — the falling off of friends — did all this cross 
his mind? Not once. Even had he cared for money, he could have 
had no selfish thought then. He only saw the old man’s bowed 
liead and clutched hands; he only thought of his generous protector 
liumbled from his high estate, and in his old age brought to the 
poverty he had always loathed; and slowly large tears rolled down 
Philip’s pale cheeks, as he stood silently gazing at his uncle. 

Suddenly Miles looked up. 

” Come here, boy.” He was at his side in a second. '‘You may 
well weep, you that were to be my heir. You are a beggar, Philip.” 

“ Oh, uncle! I do not think of myself; I think of you only. You 
have been my protector, my father — you have done all for me; and 
I would have given my life to save you from this.” ^ 

The old man’s stony gaze softened a little at Philip’s warm and 
loving expression. 

“ Shall you still care for me, lad, in my ruin?” he said, helpless- 

ly- 

Philip was on his knees, and seizing the cold, withered hand, he 
pressed it to his lips — 

“ As God is my Judge, I will, sir! I may have been selfish — care- 
less of you in my own hour of success — but you shall now know all 
my affection for you. You received me a friendless little child — ” 

“ Ay; but I turned from your father, Phil,” he interrupted, husk- 
ily; “ and I have never seen Herbert’s face so plainly as in the last 
hour. I mind well the letter he wrote me in his distress, and how I 
answered it — how I scorned his honest poverty, and insulted him 
and his wife. Since then, I have shut my heart to the poor in my 
pride of wealth, and now — I am judged.” 

“You have not forgotten the poor of late years, sir,” answered 
Philip. “You have built hospitals— you have founded schools; 

and many a widow and orphan have learned to bless your name. 

4 


98 


PHILIP EARNSCLIPFE. 


And, oh! whatever self-reproach you ma}" feel with regard to any 
former action toward my parents, that action is more than canceled 
by all you have done for their son. You have given me education, 
and I can now make my own way in the world.’' 

He spoke so warmly and hopefully, that old Mileis’s features 
gradually lost something of their frightful rigidity; and clasping his 
hands, he thanked Heaven that, amid the wreck of all his worldly 
fortunes, there was still left to him his nephew’s noble heart. 

“ God bless you, Phil!” he said very softly. 

They* remained long together, talking — not of the storm which 
had just burst over them, but of the old happy days; of the summer 
excursions they had made together; of the thousand little events of 
Philip’s boyhood. There is a strange proneness in human beings 
to take refuge, under the first shock of any sudden calamity, in the 
peaceful remembrance of the past; as though, in that brief hour, 
the heart tried to concentrate all that life has known of sweetness, 
before attempting to confront the stern and present reality. And 
this is especially the case when, as with Miles Earnscliffe, no vision 
of the future can offer anything half so bright again. 

But this passed, after a time. He relapsed into vacant silence, 
and then starting up, as though the truth had only just burst in all 
its fullness upon him, exclaimed — “I will not believe it! What, 
all gone! — the labors of thirty years! Read it again, Phil; it is 
false, a newspaper lie; I am not a beggar. Read it, I say!” 

And he fixed a look, almost of fierce hope, upon his nephew, as 
he again took the paper, which went to Philip’s heart. 

” There is no doubt of its correctness, sir, I fear,” he replied, in 
a low voice, after reading the paragraph once more. ” And we 
must not buoy ourselves up on any frail hopes of that kind. But 
neither will you be, by any means, brought to what the world calls 
poverty. Your estate in Yorkshire, and this very house, form in 
themselves a fortune that to many a man would seem riches.” 

” I shall not be an actual beggar, nephew, I know,” answered 
Miles, bitterly. “ But think wdiat I was; dukes glad to sit at my 
table; even royalty smiling at me; an earl proud to marry his daugh- 
ter into my family. Good God, Philip!” he exclaimed, the thought 
crossing him for the first time, ” what will those people say to my 
ruin? and your wife! Ah! there lies the deepest of my humilia- 
tions!” 

Philip felt this, too, fully as deeply as his uncle; but he said little 
on the subject, and merely observed that it was not unlikely Clara’s 
character might shine out in his adversity far more brightly than it 


PHILIP EAENSCLIFPE. 


99 


had hitherto done. '‘It was woman’s nature,” he said, “ to be- 
come more soft and gentle in time of trial; and after the unvarying 
kindness shown to her by his uncle, it was impossible for her to en- 
tertain any feeling but that of sorrow for him now; and as to the St. 
Legers,” added Philip, “ it matters little to us what they do or say. 
They will merely follow in the track of the other worldly acquaint 
ance who will fall away at the first breath of our altered fortunes.” 

He stayed long, and his kindly consolation was some comfort to 
Miles, who gradually became more natural in his manner, less help- 
less, and more bitter, which, for him, was the best possible sign; 
and at length the unyielding spirit which, through years of drudg- 
ery and disappointment had never flinched, again began to rise with 
an elasticity wonderful in so old a man. By the time Philip left 
him he was deep in accounts in his study, calculating upon the 
wreck of his fortunes, and, with his old business habits, already 
writing letters to his different agents, and planning for the realiza- 
tion of the small sum which remained to hirp. 

“Well, good-bye, Phil!” were his last words. “ And if your wife 
and grand friends cast you off in our ruin, return to me. I shall 
still have enough for both of us.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

It was dusk when Philip returned to town; but this time he rode 
on fast, and lingered not on the road. The storm, whose distant 
coming he had instinctively felt that morning, had burst; and now, 
with his head erect, and something of the same feeling in his breast 
which as a boy had made him love to battle with the waves, he pre- 
pared to stem the real sea of life under its new aspect. 

Totally apart from his sympathy with his uncle, it would not be 
too much to say that Philip’s feelings were happy ones. His exist- 
ence had hitherto been barren of many deep emotions — for his age 
he had had too few struggles with difficulty — all that he had wished 
for he had won. “ How,” he felt, with a thrill of conscious power 
in himself, “ my life begins in earnest. I am Philip Earnscliffe, 
the author, not Miles Earnscliffe ’s heir. I must depend upon myself 
alone and fight my own battle. ’ ’ And his eye dilated at the thought. 

He rode on, and was soon on the streets of London, where the man 
of fortune, or beggared outcast, become alike, in ihe immense surge 
of human life, an unnoticed unit; and Philip thought that every- 
thing around seemed altered. The yellow lamps struggling through 


100 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


the dense fog — the confused roar of life in which no one sound pre- 
dominates— the shops with their gaudy windows and sickly appren- 
tices behind the counter; but, above all, the aspect of his fellow-men 
about him, struck him differently to what it had all done hundreds 
of times before. He looked at the miserable beings on the pavement 
— the common street-beggar, the greasy pickpocket, the black-coat- 
ed hypocrite with tracts, the drunken lad of seventeen— men, loung- 
ing, idle, and desperate, who should have been, like himself, in the 
very prime of life— little children with the expression of premature 
age upon their stolid features, and attempting to extort alms with 
the whine of already practiced imposture; and, worst of all, girlish 
faces, where the lingering traces .of youth and womanhood were all 
blurred over with bold vice, or sunken in the approach of a hopeless 
death. And Philip felt — '‘And I, with all these fallen beings 
around me, and the intellect and power God has given me, how 
have I fulfilled my mission, or attempted to raise the lot of one fel- 
low-man? By writing books for society, and verses for albums! It 
is indeed time some shock should come, to rouse me from my wasted 
existence!” 

Then he looked at another class of men; clerks from the city, 
artists from their studios, professors from their lectures, who were 
all hurrying to their homes through the dusky streets; and he felt 
with pride that he should now be one of them — one of those who 
work, and in some way contribute to the general good of the world. 

The magnificent horse he rode did not seem his own; when he ar- 
rived at the door of his house in Park Lane, he felt that it was his 
home no longer, and almost rejoiced in the thought. " I was born 
to work,” he said, “ and all the false advantages of riches and po- 
sition have been only bars to my success.” 

He inquired in a cheerful tone for Lady Clara, and, on hearing 
that she was in the drawing-room, and alone, proceeded at once up- 
stairs. But the bravest man in the world is not always so in his 
own household; and every step that Philip ascended, he seemed to 
feel his courage ebb in an inverse ratio. By the time he reached 
the first landing, he had painted Clara to himself, in one of her 
coldest, most cynical moods; and when he got to the drawing-room 
door, would sooner have announced his fallen fortunes to every ac- 
quaintance in London at once, than in this tete-d-tete interview to his 
wife. 

He opened the door, and saw her, Hot cowering before the fire 
as usual in the dark; but seated at the table, very erect, very well 
dressed, and writing; and Philip took this as a bad omen. 


PHILIP EARKSCLIPFE. 


101 


Clara had made all her arrangements during his absence, and had 
had a long conversation with her mother, after which — much 
against Lady St. Leger’s will — it had been decided that she should 
return that evening to her father’s house. Lady St. Leger hated 
the vulgar eclat of such a proceeding, and was by no means anxious 
for her daughter’s companionship. 

“ You are acting madly, Clara,” she urged, “ and will bitterly re- 
pent this false step. You say you do not love Philip; well, I sup- 
pose you never did, but still he is your husband, and some day will 
inherit his uncle’s fortune. Now, you know that you have no set- 
tlements, and therefore, in leaving him, you at once forfeit all 
chance of benefiting by the old man’s death— for it is not likely 
Philip would ask you to return to him then — and besides, all these 
things are bad in themselves; anything approaching to a scene or 
publishing her domestic grievances to the world, should be avoided 
by a woman of good taste. Your husband’s talents secure him a 
place in society, and your position as his wife is far better than it 
will ever be as Lord St. Leger’s neglected daughter. Young, hand- 
some, and rich, every one would be on his side; and to me falls the 
ridiculous role of chaperoning a married daughter — and you really 
have aged terribly lately— who could not agree with her own hus- 
band.” 

“ You may set your mind at rest, mother,” answered Clara; “ I 
shall never appear in society, or interfere with you in any way. I 
only ask a place in yourliouse, instead of living alone; at which the 
world, I suppose, would cavil, old and plain though I have become. 
But you seem to overlook, entirely,” she added, bitterly, “ my rea- 
sons for leaving Mr. Eamscliffe. ” 

” Not in the least; and it is that which makes it more absurd. 
You see your husband at the opera, in the same box with an actress, 
or dancer, or some person of the kind, and you immediately draw 
all sorts of conclusions from this trivial circumstance, and then de- 
cide upon the grave step of a separation. What can be more nat- 
ural than for a young man of his age to be led into such society? 
what more usual? Why, half the wives of London might leave 
their homes for such a ridiculous cause; and your not caring about 
Philip, makes it doubly incomprehensible to me why you should be 
jealous! If you had gone more into the world, as I advised you 
from the first, and formed friendships and amusements for yourself, 
you would have been happy without troubling yourself about his 
proceedings. Look at me, Clara! do you think I should look as I 
do now, if I had worried myself at every neglect or indiscretion of 


102 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE. 


my husband as you do? Yet I was much more attached to your 
father than you are to Philip!” 

Clara did look at her mother’s still fresh, well-preserved face; and 
she answered with a compressed lip, '‘Yes, it would have been far 
better for me to be like you, but I am not!” 

No arguments of Lady St. Leger having prevailed, it was at 
length decided, much to her annoyance, that she should expect her 
daughter that evening; and Clara awaited Philip’s return, to com- 
municate her intentions to him personally. He remained away so 
long, however, that she at length thought he would not return for 
the day, and had just begun a letter to him, when she heard his 
knock at the door. She felt a momentary tremor at the sound; but 
quickly recovered her composure and was completely nerved for the 
approaching scene, when Philip entered the room. The opening of 
the attack she left to chance, having failed in planning any to her 
own satisfaction. She had quite resolved he should never know 
that jealousy of a dancer was the immediate cause of her resolution; 
and she would therefore be obliged to urge it on the general grounds 
of his neglect and her indifference. 

“ Good- evening, Clara.” 

She laid down her pen, and looked at him. He was very pale; 
and his features were set as though under the influence of some 
strong emotion. 

“ He actually cowers before me!” she thought; and, with a scorn- 
ful half- smile, returned his salutation. 

“ If she has any of a woman’s best nature left, she will soften 
now,” thought Philip; and advancing to her side, he stooped and 
kissed her forehead. But she turned haughtily from his caress, 
which to her seemed only a mean attempt at conciliation, and re- 
marked—" You look agitated, Mr. Earnscliffe; to what am I to at- 
tribute all this sudden outbreak of affection?” 

The chilling tone of these words, and the look that accompanied 
them, froze back Philip’s half-awakened feelings of kindness. He 
seated himself on the other side of the fire and remained silent, con- 
sidering how he should best announce his uncle’s ruin to his cold, 
worldly companion. 

" I have been to the Oaks to-day, Clara.” She did not answer. 
" My uncle is not well, and is confined to the house; he made many 
kind inquiries for you.”’ 

‘ ‘ Really, I am greatly indebted to Mr. Earnscliffe. And these 
kind inquiries you were doubtless able to answer fully, as you know 
so much of my health and life,”. 


PHILIP EABKSCLIPPE. 


103 


“ Oh, Clara!” said Philip, suddenly looking very full at her as he 
spoke; do not reproach me to-day; I have had much to bear 
already.” 

” Indeed! May I ask you not to communicate any particulars of 
your trials to me? they must be of a nature in which it is impossible 
for me to have any interest!” and half-rising toward the light, she 
looked at her watch. 

Philip was stung with this assumption of indifference, and an- 
swered— “ They are of a nature. Lady Clara, in which you. must 
lake an interest, and, if not told you by my lips, you will hear them 
from a hundred others to-morrow.” 

” Oh! perhaps your new book — you have been writing one, I be- 
lieve — is a failure; if so, the event, of course, is not so serious to the 
world and to me as to yourself. ’ ’ 

He did not answer: but fixed his eyes — more in sorrow than with 
a harsher feeling — upon her face for a few seconds. 

” It is strange,” he said, at length, and as though to himself, ” that 
she should have fixed upon this day as a fitting time to declare her 
indifference to me.” And, even as he spoke, something in the soft 
tone of his voice thrilled through her heart. But the better feeling 
soon passed. 

“As well this day as another,” she returned. “The fact has 
long been so— why should I conceal it any longer? As you have 
thrown off the mask, so may I.” 

Philip scarcely heard her words. For the second time in his mar- 
ried life, the image of his rough, unpolished uncle rose up brightly 
before him, compared with that of his high-born wife; and he re- 
membered how, amidst his own anguish, the old man had. still 
spoken kindly to him. 

“ Clara,” he resumed, “ I have no wish to deny any of my errors, 
or that you have grave cause for complaint. But remember one 
thing, whatever my conduct has been, my uncle has ever felt kindly 
toward you; and even this morning — ” 

“ What have I to do with Mr. Miles Earnscliffe’s kindness?” she 
interrupted, haughtily; “ and for what object are you wasting these 
sentimental speeches upon me? You mistake me strangely, sir, if 
you think that I care for your uncle’s regard, or his wealth either!” 

“ And you mistake me,” cried Philip, starting to his feet. “ You 
mistake me strangely if you think that for my own sake I am en- 
deavoring to soften a heart like yours. I was preparing to tell you, 
madame, of the ruin of an honest man. You need sneer no longer 
at my uncle’s wealth — he has lost it. Yes, it is true: and I, Lady 


104 


miLlP EAHKSCLIPPE. 


Clara, no longer the heir you married, but a poor struggling 
author.” And folding his arms, he looked her full in the face. 

She turned very pale, and did not answer. For only one second 
her better nature made her long to fall upon his neck, and return to 
him in his hour of trial — then the impulse passed. She was incapa- 
ble of judging a generous nature like Philip’s; she had known none 
but. people steeped in worldliness from her very cradle; and^ in his 
altered manner, she only saw some selfish project upon her father’s 
wealth. Now, she thought, she could reject him — wound him to 
the very quick — without betraying her own jealousy, or lowering 
herself. And with her most cutting smile she remarked— 

“ Oh! then this is the cause of your returned affection, Mr. Earns- 
cliffe.” 

“Hear me, Clara,” said Philip, with grave dignity. “Under 
my fallen prospects, I feel that, in spite of the cold unnatural way 
in which it has been your choice that we should live together, you 
are still my wife. You married me under different circumstances, 
and for your sake, next to his own, I grieve most at my uncle’s 
ruin. You never loved me; and it may appear hard that your un- 
happy married life should be deprived also of the prospect of wealth, 
under which it was undertaken. These considerations, I confess, 
gave me a return of warmer feelings toward you which you reject; 
and if you see in this any subject for ridicule, I can only pity your 
own hard nature, not to be ashaamed of my motives.” 

But Clara only heard his allusion to her marrying him for money, 
and her eyes fiashed fire. 

“ You do well,” she cried, “ to remind me, now, in your ruin, of 
my marriage with 3^ou! You do well to remind me of my motives, 
now that they are rendered fruitless! Yes! I married you, as I 
thought, to save my father from disgrace — although in that, too, I 
was mistaken, for I know how you have turned from him in his diffi- 
culties. I married you simply and exclusively for money. I never 
loved you — no — not in the moment when I consented to become 
your wife. You have heard it all, now!” 

“ And I, Lady Clara,” replied Philip, stung out of all generosity; 
“ do you know why I married you?” 

“Tell me,” she answered, her blue eyes lurid with rage. But 
even yet he forbore. “ No, madame, I will not; your mother will 
do so far better than I can. I will say that, even in my marriage, 
the most bitterly regretted act of my life, I would not exchamre the 
motives which prompted me for your own.' 

“Go on, sir,” she cried, scarcely knowing what she said; “go 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE. 


105 


on — and tell me that, deluded by my mother’s falsehood, you mar- 
ried me from pity. I will hear all that you have to say, and then — 
then you shall hear me. ’ ’ 

“Clara,” returned Philip, and he advanced a step toward her, 
his face softening once more, “ still I ask you to forbear. This is 
not a time for recriminations; now, if ever, we should remember all 
that we have once vowed to each other. I have erred against you — 
I have neglected you — and I confess it. Forgive me — return to me 
— return to me in my poverty and forget the first cold year of our 
married life!” And he held out his hand to his wife. 

She recoiled from him, and, with all the expression of concentrat- 
ed scorn that could be thrown into look and voice, replied, “ Stay, 
sir, do not degrade yourself by any more mean attempts to conciliate 
me. I understand your object well, and scorn it and you. Hith- 
erto, in your pride of plebeian wealth, you have not cared to court 
me for my father’s money; but now, in your ruin, you — ay, and 
your uncle too — will both fawn and cringe, and lick the dust be- 
fore the very woman whom you insulted yesterday with your neg- 
lect. Your uncle — ” 

But Philip’s iron grasp upon her arm arrested her. Every gentler 
feeling was dead forever in his breast toward her; and his dark 
eyes kindled again with passion at her taunts. 

“ Stop, madame,” he said, his voice low and ominously calm; “ I 
command you to stop and hear me. You have just uttered thoughts 
that could only have had birth in the heart of Lord St. Leger’s 
daughter; and you know that your imputation is untrue. As you 
won, so you discard me — with a falsehood; and it is a worthy end- 
ing of our hateful union. My uncle. Lady Clara, and myself, are 
men of honor, and would both of us sooner starve than accept 
money which has been tainted by passing through the hands of your 
father. You can return to him, and to his wealth, at once. From 
this moment you are no longer my wife, even in the eyes of the 
world; and the day of my fall from fortune will be the sweetest of 
my life, as the last of my connection with you!” 

These were the harshest words ever spoken by Philip to a woman, 
and could only have been wrung from him by Clara’s insult to his 
uncle — but his blood was on fire, and he heeded not what he said. 
Both remained silent for some seconds; then Clara rose. 

“ Do not think, Mr. Earnscliffe, that you are the first to propose 
this step,” she said. “ My arrangements are already made for quit- 
ting your house; and my parents are prepared to receive me this 
evening. Before I heard of your beggary, I had resolved to separate 


106 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


from you forever, and to leave you to your own course of life, and 
your own associates. In this case ” — she pointed to one on the 
table — you will find all the jewels I have received from your uncle 
or yourself; and if you have any further communications to make 
me on business, you will have the goodness to do so through my 
father’s solicitor. And now, I presume, I can leave your house at 
once. There can be nothing more for you to say, or for me to 
hear.” And she moved toward the door. 

Nothing!” echoed Philip — nothing. Thank God, no child of 
mine can call you mother! and that, in this moment, I have no one 
softer feeling — no duty pleading for you in my heart. Go, madame! 
return to your parents’ house; you are far fitter to be their daughter 
than the wife of an honest man!” And he turned away, and buried 
his face between his hands. 

In another moment the door closed after her. The carriage, 
which was ordered to convey her to her father’s, was already wait 
ing, and in a quarter of an hour she had left the house, and Philip 
and his wife were parted forever. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Earnsclifpe little knew, at first, the full extent to which his 
uncle’s losses would affect himself. With all the romance of his 
character, he had pictured his new life as merely freed from the 
artificial trammels of society, and more like that of his friend 
Neville’s, and had felt a sort of pleasure at the thought. The real- 
ity was such as he never dreamed of. All the world had hitherto 
been on his side on the point of his domestic grievances. Lady 
Clara, in her gloomy seclusion, had had few supporters, while all — 
even her own relations — had smiled on her young, handsome, and 
rich husband; and had their separation taken place a month earlier, 
it is probable that every one would have pronounced in Philip’s 
favor. But the news of Miles Earnscliffe’s ruin, and of Clara’s re- 
turn to her father’s protection, fell on the greedy ear of the world at 
the same time; and the feeling awakened by the first intelligence 
greatly influenced the vei’dict upon the latter. 

Philip had so long been the universal favorite — the fashion in 
London — that people looked upon his fall from wealth as a sort of 
insult to their own judgment. The failure of Miles Earnscliffe was 
a thing the probability of which had never been admitted by even 
the most suspicious; indeed, it was generally believed that the old 
fortune had been long withdrawn from the uncertain 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


107 


field of speculation, and vested in English securities. When, there- 
fore, the sudden news of his ruin was made known, the general feel- 
ing toward him was one not of pity, hut indignation. Prom un- 
founded remarks arose reports, these quickly strengthened into 
facts; and in a few days Miles Earnscliffe was successively pro- 
nounced an unprincipled speculator, a man who originally amassed 
his fortune by fraud, and had now lost it through the discovery of 
the swindle. For the directors of the Bombay Bank, whose failure 
had ruined him, were in truth by no mearis clear from the imputa- 
tion of dishonor; and the world, merely confounding the sufferer 
with the delinquent, decreed that old Miles was not only ruined, but 
infamous! 

Philip, it was admitted, had nothing to do with this; but he was 
a coxcomb, ^parvemt, and a bad husband; while, by a natural con- 
clusion, Lady Clara was soon elevated to the position of an injured 
woman, long-suffering angel, and a martyr. And Lady St. Leger, 
who had so strongly opposed her daughter’s separation from Philip, 
was agreeably surprised at suddenly finding herself quite the fash- 
ion in consequence of this event. 

Clara, however, received the advances of her friends with even 
more than accustomed coldness. She would go into no society, and 
kept, as much aloof from her own mother as was possible; above all, 
she hated to hear her husband’s name, or that of his uncle men- 
tioned before her. In her own heart she had felt, after the first 
burst of passion was over, the falseness of the accusation she had 
made to Philip. Kow that they were actually parted forever, she 
began tardily to acknowledge to herself the real nobleness of his 
character; and — with strange, yet not uncommon inconsistency — 
half believed she loved her husband, now that it was too late. She 
remembered his youth — his generosity in marrying her — how un- 
suited her character, in its utter worldliness, must have been to his 
own — and she framed a thousand excuses for his love of more con- 
genial society; and even for that last open dereliction which had 
been the immediate cause of their separation. 

In her long sleepless nights she recalled their parting interview, 
and saw herself harsh, unwomanly, unforgiving; taunting him on 
his uncle’s affliction, and imputing sordid motives to himself, while 
he had forborne so long, and still tried to reconcile her. She 
thought of him now, the world turning from him as it should have 
done from guilt, not misfortune, and her proud, misguided heart — 
which might have been a gentle and loving one, had she been differ- 
ently educated — throbbed for Philip in his loneliness, as it had 


108 


PHILIP EAHHSCLIPPP. 


never done in his popularity and success; and often in tears and 
self-reproach she longed to be at his side. But he never knew this. 
Clara would have died sooner than reveal to human ear that she re- 
pented her own act; and through all her after-life Philip Earnsclitfe 
never heard again from his wife. 

The house in Park Lane was, of course, given up at once, and 
Philip returned to his uncle’s for the present, until the future plans 
of both should be decided. Miles, though no longer a millionaire, 
was, after all, very far from .being a ruined man; and on the pro- 
ceeds of the sale of his Yorkshire estate, he found that he might 
still continue to live in his present house — a great consolation to the 
old man, to whom his home was endeared by all the recollections of 
Philip’s childhood. His tens of thousands had been reduced to 
hundreds; but he had an income even now, which, although pov- 
erty in the eyes of the world, would to his brother Herbert have ap- 
peared riches. 

“ I shall not have to lessen your allowance more than half, Phil,” ‘ 
was one of his first remarks after the winding-up of his affairs. But 
the burning flush which rose in Philip’s cheek, as he refused to re- 
ceive one farthing more in the way of assistance from his uncle, was 
too sincere a proof of his sentiments for Miles to press the subject. 

‘‘ I am fully able to work for myself,” he answered. “ And for 
my own sake, I am thankful that it is my lot to do so. I abhor the 
very mention of riches, as I do the people who have cringed to us 
for them so long.” * Philip had heard more of the evil reports about 
his uncle than had come to the old man’s own knowledge, and his 
disgust was consequently bitterer against the world where they were 
circulated. He shrunk with almost morbid sensitiveness from any 
mention of money; and innocent though he felt himself, conscious 
of his uncle’s entire integrity through his whole life-time, he yet 
could not bear to be seen by his old associates, while the imputation 
of dishonor was upon their name, avoiding even the society of the 
new friends he possessed, who really sympathized with him in his 
trial. Poverty would have been nothing to Philip, but the falsehood 
which was now current in the world was so unexpected a blow, that 
he staggered and felt powerless under the shock. It was his first 
great trial, and he felt it with all the keen and passionate grief of 
youth. But there was still more awaiting him. 

His new book was now ready, and he determined that it should 
come out at once, though his friendly publishers, with a truer 
knowledge of the world, and a real regard for his interest, entreated 
him to delay its appearance until another season, or, at least, till the 


PHILIP EARHBCLrFPE. 


109 


present tide of public opinion had somewhat turned. Philip firmly 
refused to do so. “ What have my private affairs to do with my 
writings?” he argued. “ Or how can it affect the merit of a book, 
that the author has suddenly become a poor man, and that his wife 
and friends have chosen to leave him! No, it shall appear, and 
stand or fall upon its own worth. I am sick of success that I have 
not really won for myself.’* And the publishers were forced to 
comply^ 

The book did appear, and it was a dead failure. Only a few 
grave and honest critics who had warned the young author of the 
faults in his second work, acknowledged the real genius and in- 
creased powers of his present one, and encouraged him to proceed. 
The fashionable papers, by one accord, and also many of the literary 
journals, abused the book without measure. It was stupid, frivolous, 
impertinent; without talent and without principles; and one evening 
paper went so far as to say, ‘ ‘ The work was only what might have 
been expected from such a pen, and was literally unfit for a draw- 
ing-room table.” 

Philip read all these criticisms, of course; it was his principal em- 
ployment to do so in his loneliness and disappointment; but when 
he glanced over the one last alluded to, a bitterer expression than 
usual escaped his lips. He remembered the two columns of fulsome 
praise upon his second book, which had appeared in this very paper, 
at the time that he was in the zenith of his popularity — praise which 
then had disgusted him, from its excess, and total want of dis- 
crimination — and contrasted them in his mind with the few lines of 
malevolent abuse bestowed now upon his last and far sujDerior w^ork. 
“It is well,” thought Earnscliffe, as he laid down the paper. 
‘ ‘ These gentlemen are doing me a far greater service than even the 
few kindly critics, who have tried to stem, in my favor, the tide of 
fashionable opinion. My next book will be one that shall seek its suc- 
cess in the world. It shall be written, not for the flimsy praise of 
Mayfair, or the applause of evening papers, but for the people — 
the working and honest people — of whose wrongs I will become 
the advocate, while I expose that society whose leaders have now 
cast me off.” And Philip fulfilled his words. 

He took an obscure lodging not far from his friend Neville (for 
he had a longing to be perfectly alone), and began working with a 
fervor and perseverance astonishing to the artist, who had hitherto 
only seen in Philip a gentle, indolent boy, with genius, but scarcely 
ambition enough to become really great. Now, in a few weeks, he 
seemed transformed into a hard-working, untiring, practical man. 


110 


PHILIP PABilSCLlPPE. 


His style altered with his character. It lost the old careless diction, 
the sunny enthusiasm, the youthfulness, which had constituted the 
peculiar charm of his earlier writings, and became earnest, manly, 
more forcible. The veins of sarcasm, that merely ran lightly 
through his first works, and scarcely tinged them, had now grown 
caustic and bitter, coloring his whole thoughts. He showed up, 
with no sparing hand, the vices and .foibles of those few hundreds 
of persons in Belgravia who call themselves the world, sketching 
many a well-known character with a few terse words of ridicule that 
yet rendered the likeness to perfection, and were more biting from 
their brevity. Above all, he laid bare that hideous Mammon- wor- 
ship which lies at the very heart of English society, making the 
fairest and first-born among us bow down with smiles before a rail- 
way schemer, who has succeeded through dishonesty, or a profiigate 
Eastern monster, whose atrocities are as well known as the number 
of his lacs of rupees. It was a subject on which Philip felt keenly, 
and about which — although with some pardonable excess of bitter- 
ness, and slight exaggeration — he wrote well. But it was not one 
to win back his lost popularity among his former friends. In his 
second volume he turned to another class of English people, and 
dwelt eloquently upon the long sufferings, the patient abidings, the 
wrongs of the laboring poor, whose masses make up the real bulk 
of society, and from their ranks the main characters of the story 
were taken. It was emphatically a book of, and for the people; 
and not all the critics in London could have prevented its becoming 
popular. But, if it had appeared with another name, few could 
have suspected that its author, and the author of the graceful tales 
and ballads which had adorned so many a silken boudoir was the 
same. 

Neville watched his friend's progress with undisguised pleasure. 
He had always regretted, the kind of life into which Philip had been 
so long drawn by his position; and he would now frequently say, 
“Ah, Phil! the best day in your life was that when your uncle’s 
smash came, your great friends withdrew, and your wife was good 
enough to leave you It was really far better luck than you de- 
served.” Philip always tried to agree with him; but every week 
he looked more worn and old. Although energetic when under 
the infiuence of some strong excitement — as was now the case — his 
temperament was not suited for battling with disappointment and 
rebuffs, like the artist’s. He had no natural “genius for plod- 
ding,” as Neville called it; and while his book proceeded rapidly, 
he grew paler in his confined lodgings, and sometimes wondered 


Ill 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 

within himself if he really were horn for this kind of life, as on the 
first evening of his changed fortune he had decided. 

Meantime, Neville’s pictures were finished and sold; and as he 
had nothing more to detain him in town, his small arrangements 
were speedily made for his departure to the Continent. Philip went 
to his lodgings the evening before he was to leave, and found him, 
as usual, in his close room, his one portmanteau and his painting- 
box standing packed under the table, and the artist himself seated 
at the solitary window which overlooked a sultry back street and a 
green-grocer’s shop, but with a more radiant expression than Philip 
had ever remarked upon his face among all the glories of a High- 
land sunset. 

“ Here you are, Philip!” he cried, gayly, as his friend entered. 
“ I thought I should see you this last evening; and, by Jove! I only 
wish you were coming away with me to-morrow — that is, of course, 
if you were as free as I am. I am not much given to bursts of en- 
thusiasm, as you know, but I do feel singularly happy to-day, and 
should like to think we were to spend the coming summer together, 
as we did the last. ’ ’ 

” You look happy,” said Philip, as he possessed himself of the 
artist’s other chair, and gazed half enviously at his bright counte- 
nance. ” The world goes well with you, Neville.” 

” Yes, I make it do so. It is no surprise at unlooked-for success 
which makes me in good spirits this evening, but merely a feeling 
of contentment at finding how things turn out precisely as I intend- 
ed they should; how singularly we can rule our own destiny! You 
know how I have slaved for the last seven months upon those pict- 
ures; they are now completed and sold exactly at the time I had 
fixed; and to-day, the thirtieth of June, as I thought, I am sitting 
for the last time in this room, where I have worked for four uphill 
years, and am closing the first period in my life. My old easel I 
have presented to my landlady for fire- wood; and to-morrow I start 
(without a regret, Phil, except that I shall not see you again for two 
years), and shall spend the summer sketching in Switzerland; next 
winter in Home.” 

” Yours is a happier organism than mine,” replied Philip. ” I 
should feel a regret at sitting at my window for the last time, and 
giving up my easel for fire- wood,' after it had been my friend dur- 
ing four years.” 

Neville laughed aloud. “It is not in my nature to create sor- 
rows/’ he answered, '‘lam pot a poet, aud have no poetic tender- 


112 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


cies whatever; and I am happy to think that you are fast losing 
yours. Just retain as much sentiment as is wanted for the tender 
part of your books, and discard all the rest from your own liie; you 
will find quite enough to regret in the world, without wasting your 
sympathies on old easels. By the bye, what are Fridoline, and Rose, 
and all those people about? Have you given them up, as well as the 
grand world?” 

‘ They at least have not given me up,” returned Philip. ” I have 
seen little of Fridoline lately; indeed, I have had time for nothing 
but writing, but I hear she is progressing wonderfully in her pro- 
fession, and receives an enormous salary at St. James’s. You 
would scarcely believe, Neville, how much feeling some of * those 
people ’ as you call them, showed when I lost my expectations of 
wealth and my literary reputation at one blow. Celeste, poor thing, 
shed tears over the criticisms in some of the papers, which she man- 
aged to understand, and Fridoline — ” 

“ And Rose?” interrupted Neville, in his old tone. 

“ No, Neville, thank you,” said Philip, reddening; ” we will not 
broach that subject if you please. You know that I am not a fit 
person to listen to Rose Elmslie’s detractors; and also that I have 
too few illusions left to be desirous of sacri being any more. Against 
my own senses, I shall retain my former opinion of Rose, and there- 
fore would rather not speak of her to you.” 

” Well, taking that view of it, you are acting rightly,” returned 
Neville. ” Like the nobleman who paid his valet three hundred a 
year to cheat him openly, you say to yourself that you are a happy 
man, and shut your eyes when you see Rose driving in Count 

B ’s pony-carriage. How far have you advanced in your book?” 

” Oh! it is half finished. In a month I shall go off to the sea-side, 
and complete it there, for I am actually ill in this hot, close air of 
London. It will be published by next winter, and I will write and 
tell you of its success — ill or good. ” 

” Do so. No one will be more interested in it than myself, and 
I shall be delighted if you would join me in Italy afterward.” 

“ I would like to extremely if I were able, but — ” 

” Well, I don’t see what there is to keep you in England. You 
say you hate parties and theaters now. Your wife is certainly no 
longer the attraction: surely you will not begin writing another 
book directly. It would be much better for you to give your brain 
a rest, and come to Italy for a stock of new ideas. I am positive 
the artist life in Rome would suit us both.” 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


113 


“ Yes — ” said Philip, hesitating. “ It would be very pleasant; 
hut you see I have ties to England. My uncle is an old man, and 
has none belonging to him hut me; for his sake I feel myself in 
some measure hound — ” 

A convenient excuse!” exclaimed Neville. “ I wish it were the 
real reason. However, the longest road has some turning, and I am 
sure your present weakness can not he eternal. When that is over, 
you will find that you can make up your mind to leave your excel- 
lent uncle for a year, or even two, without the separation breaking 
anybody ’ s heart ! ” 

“ But you forget that I am a poor man now. It is an expensive 
thing traveling in Italy. ” 

‘‘ Oh, you always talk as though you were actual beggars, when 
at this moment Mr. Miles continues to live in a house I consider a 
palace, and you have nearly finished a new novel, for which you 
will have six or seven hundred pounds, at least.” 

Or half, or a quarter the sum,” interrupted Philip. “After 
my last dead failure publishers will be rather shy of offering to pur- 
chase my works.” 

“ Then publish on your own account; your new book must suc- 
ceed.” 

They talked together until past midnight. Then Philip, after a 
hearty farewell, took his leave; and by five o’clock next morning 
Neville was driving along through the interminable streets leading 
to St. Katherine’s Wharf, where he embarked for Rotterdam. 

Philip felt a heavy sense of loneliness when he was gone. He 
missed Neville’s cheerful face more than he had expected — his 
friendlessness oppressed him. There were long weary hours when 
his brain refused to work, and his eyes were hot and heavy; and 
then he longed most for youthful companionship, and so gradually 
took refuge more and more in the society of poor Rose. She was 
always ready to smile upon him. Without much real depth of feel- 
ing, the innocence of her country life gave her a tone unlike other 
women of her class — she was gentle, often sad: for the sentiment 
she really bore to Philip (the only approach to a true one in her 
whole existence) made her at times hate herself and her life, and 
when she was with him her eyes would fill with tears, and her voice 
tremble. In an hour after he had left, the momentary impulse was 

gone; and in the society of Count B , or at the gay suppers after 

the ballet. Rose was again the light, reckless, high-spirited actress. 
But while her softer mood was upon her (and that was as he always 


114 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


saw her) it gave her a charm in Philip’s eyes greater even than her 
beauty, and every day this fascination increased. 

Still, Earnscliffe did not love her. There was something within 
him which instinctively made him shrink from loving any woman 
in her position. His naturally refined taste, and poetic notions 
about what woman should be, had made him from his boyhood feel 
difterently to other young men on such subjects; and he knew that 
the moment in which he forced to see Rose as she really was, he 
would leave her forever. But, in the meantime, her beauty attract- 
ed him irresistibly. Amid his desolation and disappointment, he 
would gaze on her sweet young face, and listen to her low voice, 
and try to persuade himself that his Egeria was really found. While 
still, in his own heart, he knew that it was a false one. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Toward the middle of October Philip’s book was finished. He 
had spent the summer at a quiet watering-place on the south coast, 
accompanied by his uncle, who seemed unwilling to part with him 
for a single week. The loss of his property had strangely softened 
the hard character of Miles. Nothing now gave him such pleasure 
as to walk up and down on the beach, listening to the waves, and 
watching the children who played with them, and gathered treas- 
ures by their side; or in stormy weather to sit at the window, which 
overlooked the sea, and gaze out at the scene before him. He would 
remain thus for hours patiently, while Philip was writing in 
another part of the room, not speaking for fear of interrupting him, 
and seeking no employment for himself; but when Philip at length 
would say — “ Now, sir, I have done work for to-day,” the old 
man’s face grew bright in a second; and when his nephew came and 
sat by him to read aloud something he had written, or talk over old 
times, he was happy for the remainder of the evening. 

Philip was glad to see his uncle in this altered state of mind, but 
to himself the quiet monotony of their days was often galling. In 
the prime of youth and energy, he longed to cast himself again into 
the throng of life, and, by some new and brilliant success, wipe out 
the remembrance of his failure, and the stigma upon his uncle’s 
name. It is only after a certain age, that solitude can be welcome 
in grief and disappointment; it is never so in youth. After the first 
blow, the first shrinking from the world is over, the natural reaction 
must always be to face the struggle again, and win bach thc lost ob- 
ject, or forget it m the pursuit of a fresh desire, 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 


115 


They returned to Miles’s house in November, and in due time the 
book appeared; but neither of his earlier productions had met with 
success such as awaited this one. Philip himself was astonished at 
it. Edition after edition was called for, and in a few months Philip 
found his popularity established upon a far surer base than it had 
ever been before — the general good opinion of the middle classes. 
He had become one of the favorite writers of the day. Still, he felt 
in his own heart that the first pleasure of success was gone. He had 
fulfilled his desire of brilliantly effacing his literary failure: and the 
fickle voice of the public had already recanted, under the influence 
of his new triumph, the former base reports about old Miles; but 
the zest — the freshness of life was over. He did not doubt the sin- 
cerity of his friends, but he wished to be free from them and the 
whole world. Having achieved the victory, he cared not to wear 
the laurels; and he began seriously to think of joining Neville, or, 
at least, of going abroad for a time. He had often wished to visit 
the wild parts of western France — where the artist had once spent 
some months, and which he had described, in all its savage loneli- 
nes, to Philip— and he now thought he would like to spend the sum- 
mer in accomplishing this, and afterward go to Rome for the win- 
ter. The extraordinary success of his last work had supplied him 
amply with means for traveling, and he felt that a long rest and 
perfect change would be necessary for his overworked brain, before 
writing again. 

Only two objections weighed against this project; the first was 
leaving his uncle. The delight of Miles at his newly arisen fame 
was far greater than his own. It had cheered the old man more 
than anything that had occurred since his own bosses; and the first 
tears Philip had ever seen him shed, glistened in his eyes as he read 
over the different criticisms upon his boy’s book. He thought Philip 
would now be contented and happy, and willing to live quietly with 
him, as in his young days; and when one day he distantly hinted at 
his idea of going abroad for a year or two, the look of bitter disap- 
pointment which crossed his uncle’s face, touched Philip deeply, 
and he resolved to say no more on the subject. But when, day by 
day, he still looked paler, while his spirits did not improve. Miles 
himself began to think it' might be really well for him to have a 
change of scene for awhile; and striving to forget what his own 
loneliness would be without him, he at length told Philip he thought 
it would be better that he should go abroad — for the summer, at 
least. And Philip, not realizing to the full the sacrifice these words 
cost Miles, felt glad that the old man was reconciled to parting with 


116 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPL. 


liim, and that only one more inducement to remain in England still 
existed. This inducement, however, was a strong one; and Philip 
had wavered again and again before he could resolve upon going 
abroad, when a circumstance occurred, which^ although trivial in 
itself, had the effect of disenchanting him forever with his last il- 
lusion (as he termed his feeling toward Kose when speaking of it to 
the artist), and indirectly influenced much of Philip’s after-life. 

One bright spring morning he went, at his usual hour, to call on 
Miss Elmslie. She was always glad to see him; but he thought he de- 
tected on this occasion a slight embarrassment in her manner when 
he entered, although she strove hard to conceal it. She was seated 
at an embossed and gayly colored writing»table, near one of the win- 
dows, and, immediately closing the portfolio before her, she rose to 
meet Philip — not however, before a glance had shown him that she 
was writing one of her familiar little pink-colored notes, which, 
from another opened envelope and note by its side, appeared to be 
in answer to one just received. 

“lam interrupting you, Rose,” he remarked; “ were you writ- 
ing to me — par hazard?” 

“Oh, no! how could I possibly have anything worth saying to 
you? I was merely writing to my milliner. Tiresome creature! 
my new dress for to-morrow is hideous, and there is scarcely time 
to make me a new one. Where will you sit? this horrid sun has 
nearly blinded me!” and closing the curtains, she threw herself into 
a chair, with her back to the light. “ Tell me what you have been 
doing this last age. ’ ’ 

Philip thought her manner somewhat forced, but replied quickly, 
“lam glad you consiSer three days an age, Rose! however, it is not 
my fault that I did not see you yesterday. I called, and you were 
engaged. Are you really growing so artiflcial,” he went on, “ as to 
call this bright sun horrid? After all the winter fog, and the yellow 
glare of gaslight, I should have thought you would like the return 
of spring.” 

“ Ah, that is where it is!” she replied, with a pretty sigh. “ I 
am so accustomed to the false glare, as you call it, of my gas-lighted 
life, that I am losing my pleasure in all old things. The sunshine 
makes me miserable, and I hate the smell of violets, which they are 
selling in the streets; you know, until I was fourteen I lived in a 
country village, and I think I would rather never be reminded of 
my early life. But you have not seen me in the new ballet; and I 
am perfect in it. ' Do you know the whole thing was composed ex- 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


117 


pressly for me, and they say the last flying scene is my chef d'c^mre, 
and little C i is mad i;ith jealousy at my success!” 

“ I do not go much to the opera now,” replied Philip. “ And, 
besides that, you know that I do not care to see you dance. I like 
to think of you as you are now, Kose — quiet and lovely, and with 
me— not gazed at, and commented on by half the men in London in 
your stage dress. In fact,” he continued warmly, “ I hate ballets; 
1 have hated them ever since I knew you. I can not bear to think of 
you continuing this public kind of life for years. Do you think you 
could be happy if you gave up the stage, Kose — could content your- 
self with the quiet, every-day happiness of an ordinary woman?” 
He seated himself by her side, looking very earnestly in her face, as 
though reading her reply more on her features than in her words. 

Miss Elmslie’s color came and went. There was something in 
Philip’s manner which actually made her own heart beat a little, 
and, under the impulse of the moment, she would have gladly given 
up her beauty, success, admiration— all that constituted the sum of 
her existence — to be once more innocent, and able i eally to love, 
and be loved by, a man like Philip Earnscliffe. At least, she thought 
so. 

“ Give up my profession!” she replied, averting her face. Oh, 
it is too late! I have nothing to retm*n to now — I have no friends, 
no relations — and without something to fill my heart and time, 1 
should soon weary of quiet, and only long the more to return to the 
excitement and forgetfulness of my present life — and it is delightful 
to be so much admired! But,” she continued, softly, and this time 
she was really not acting when large tears filled her eyes, if 1 had 
earlier met some one to care for me, to w^arn me of the dangers of 
my position, and save me, I should have hated to be a dancer— now 
it is too late!” 

“Rose,” began Philip, in a low, grave voice, “it can never be 
too late.” 

She shook her head; but he persisted. He, too, was carried away 
by impulse — the girl’s beautiful face, and touching contrite manner 
had never so affected him before; he began talking about a quiet cot- 
tage in the country, and a life apart from the whole world; and, 
Heaven knows to what future extent Philip was about to commit 
himself, when, at that moment, a discreet knock came at the door 
of the room, and immediately afterward, his guardian angel — ^in the 
shape of Miss Elmslie’s very diminutive page — entered. 

“Please, ma’am, is the note ready?” said the child — he ought to 
have been better trained, but Rose had only had him a few days in her 


118 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIFFE. 


service, the former hoy having outgrown the fairy- like dimensions of 
her carriage. “ The count’s groom says he has got so many ladies 
to call on this morning, he thinks he can’t wait any longer.” 

Her face turned crimson with mingled shame and anger at the 
hoy’s stupidity, and Philip, with the feeling of one who has been 
rudely awakened out of a pleasant slumber over the brink of a preci- 
pice, rose to his feet. 

“ Tell him,” stammered Rose, to wait — I mean there is no an- 
swer — no — I will send one — in the course of the day.” 

The page withdrew, to comment on his mistress’s odd manner 
and the young gentleman’s face to the count’s groom, and left Rose 
and Philip once more alone. But in those few moments an immense 
space of time seemed to have elapsed. She was the first to speak. 

“ It is nothing,” she hesitated, only an answer to an invitation 
— Count B , you know ” — Philip said nothing — ” has a party to- 
night — only a musical party, 1 believe — and — and — he wished me to 
join — Celeste will be there — and — but I shall not go, ” she added, 
glancing at his face. 

“And you were doubtless writing a refusal when I came in,” 
answered Philip. “ Or did you say that was to your milliner?” 

“ It really was, I assure you.” 

“ Let me see it.” 

“ Do you not believe me?” 

“ Let me see it.” 

“ Oh, you are too hard upon me,” she answered, and burst into 
tears. 

It was her best move. Philip never could stand the sight of tears, 
and his tone softened. 

“ Let me see your reply,” he said again; “ I have surely a right 
to require that.” 

She rose very slowly, and after visible hesitation, drew a little 
key from her watch-chain, and prepared to unlock the case. 

“ Do not ask me,” she said, once more, as she paused irresolute- 
ly, her head bent down, and her slight figure leaning in an attitude 
of excessive grace against the writing-table. 

Philip’s eyes were intently fixed upon her, and she was so lovely 
at that moment, that he could scarcely feel angry with her for any- 
thing; but he answered: 

“ You have deceived me. Rose; however, as you object to it, I do 
not ask to see the note. You have a right to keep your own counsel. 
For the future, I will not attempt to interfere — ” 

She fiew to his side. “ I have deceived you!” she cried, her 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


.119 


cheeks burning brightly, and her eyes swimming. ‘ ‘ I have deceived 
you — and I confess it! I told you I was writing to the milliner 
when you came in, because I knew you would think me wrong to 

go to a party at Count B ’s; but I really was to go with Celeste, 

and we both meant to come away early— I am so sorry now — so 
truly sorry — only let me write a refusal to that horrid man, and — 
forgive me!” 

As Philip had told Neville, he had too few youthful illusions left 
for him to be willing to part with any of those which still lingered;; 
and with Rose’s imploring eyes and flushed cheeks before him, it 
must not be greatly wondered at that he did forgive her. He saw 
the note written and sent, and tried to believe that she had accepted 
the invitation at flrst merely through her childish love of gayety. 
They were reconciled at once; and Rose made faint attempts to re- 
new their former conversation; but Earnscliffe could not at once get 

over the shock of this little incident. Count B ’s shadow had 

darkened the prospect of a country cottage, and he left Miss Elms- 
lie’s house in an hour’s time without having returned to the sub- 
ject which had, so happily for himself, been interrupted. 

“ Come to-morrow, and you will see how fresh I look after my 
early hours to-night,” were her last words as her hand trembled in 
his at parting. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Philip felt in an unsettled mood after he left Rose. He had no 
particular engagement for the day; and when he had looked in at 
his club, and wandered about the streets for a time, he grew weary, 
and directed his steps homeward. The whole of this time his mind 
was dwelling on the occurrence of the morning. 

“Is it possible, after all, that Neville vras indeed right?” he 
thought. “ And is she — not merely light and childish — but false? 
She deceived me so coolly about the invitation, when she flrst saw 
me, and then afterward — still, I suppose if Celeste is to be at this 
party Rose might think it a fit one for her too— poor child ! He 
must invite a , different class of guests now, by the way, for Celeste 

never used to goto such houses as Count B ’s.” He paused.. 

“ I wonder if Celeste is going to-night, after all?” 

This doubt once awakened, Philip could not rest till it was satis- 
fled. He turned his steps at once in the opposite direction, and an 
hour afterward was seated in Celeste's dr^iwingvroom— all perf^^ie, 
^nd ormolu, and rose- colored ligbt^aud -|fetouiug to the. lively little 


120 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIPPE. 


Frenchwoman’s affectionate greeting, until he almost forgot the ob- 
ject of his visit. She had not seen much of '' ce cher Philippe ” 
lately, and was enchanted to be able to talk over his recent success. 

At length they begin to appreciate you;” she exclaimed in French, 
as she made him take a seat beside her, on her dainty satin sofa. 

These monsters! You will be one of the first writers of the 
day — indeed you are so already — you are immortal, and I — in my 
humble insignificance — I shall always retain the happiness of feel- 
ing that I was one of the very first to recognize- your young genius, 
and to give you my small encouragement.” Poor Celeste! she quite 
thought that her little supper-parties had some way or another as- 
sisted Philip in the literary world. 

And I,” returned Earnscliffe, kindly, “ shall always gratefully 
remember your zeal and warm sympathy with me in my failure. I 
have many to congratulate me now; but you were one of the few 
who stood by me through everything.” 

Her eyes softened. Ah, Philip! you have a long and brilliant 
^career in store for you,” she cried; “ and in your celebrity and your 
active life, you will have no time to think of old days. But I shall 
not forget you. As Fridoline says, you are the only man in the 
world with whom one can forget that one is an actress; and, you 
know, it is pleasant sometimes to think that we belong to the same 
humanity as your own sisters and wives. Poor little Fridoline!” 
she continued; ” do you not think she has been looking pale of late?’ ’ 

Philip with some feeling of compunction, was obliged to confess 
that he had not seen her for a long time; he had been so fully occu- 
pied. 

“Yes,” interrupted Celeste. “ I know all about that. But your 
book has long been published, and your present occupation is not of 
a nature worthy enough to make you forget your old friends; and 
Fridoline and I both used to consider ourselves among the number.” 

Philip was silent. Something in Celeste’s tone struck him as more 
than mere wounded vanity, or feminine jealousy, and it reminded 
him of the object of his visit. He shrunk, however, from approach- 
ing the subject; and, after a short kind of laugh, went on inquiring 
for Fridoline. 

“I shall never understand that girl,” replied Celeste. “ Her 
whole life is a perfect mystery. She works on, as 1 never could, 
at her profession; she improves wonderfully, and receives — mon 
Dieu, quel salaire ! yet I believe every day she hates the stage more 
and more. Her greatest triumphs only give her a gloomy, unnat- 
ural pleasure,^ which arises neither from gratified vanity, nor any 


EARNSCLTFm 


121 


other feeling that I can understand; and, with all her money, would 
you believe that, instead of buying toilets or ornaments, or a carriage, 
or giving parties, she still lives in that dull old cottage, with her one 
servant and her beasts, and will not spend a shilling on a cab in 
rainy weather? And yet she is no miser; for she will give freely to 
any unfortunate being she meets in the streets. She goes nowhere 
but to the theater, and to see me; in short, as I said, her life and her- 
self are mysteries!” 

You know more about her than any one. Celeste. What do you 
really think is her early history? for, of course, little Fridoline did 
not actually drop from the clouds, when she first appeared* in Lon- 
don.” 

Celeste shook her head. “ I know nothing — or next to nothing,” 
she replied. “Fridoline is like a child in telling me all the inci- 
dents of her present life; but, if anything happens to lead her toward 
the past, she becomes suddenl}^ silent and confused, and evidently 
shuns the subject. Two things I do know,” she added, hesitatingly, 
“ and certainly I would confide them to no one but yourself: how- 
ever, I know you are so unlike most of the world that, if I told you, 
her secret as far as it goes, would be safe, and also that you would 
not judge Fridoline by mere appearance.” 

“ And these circumstances?” 

“ Well, they are these.” Celeste drew a little closer, and lowered 
her voice. “ The first, perhaps, you may think unimportant; 
Fridoline, though she always speaks of herself as an orphan, has a 
mother living, and not very far distant. This I know for certain; 
for when she was ill and delirious — ’ ’ 

“ And you nursed her. Celeste.” 

“-—She more than once spoke of her mother, wildly and mourn- 
fully, but in terms which showed that she had only lately parted 
from her. The second clew is dark, and to me incomprehensible; 
and often and often I have thought over it, and vainly tried to con- 
nect the circumstance I am about to tell you with Fridoline as she 
now is. You shall, however, judge for yourself. When Fridoline 
had been in London some months, she chanced one day to be sitting 
with me when an old friend of mine from Paris — a relation of my 
own, in fact, who had just arrived in England — came in unexpect- 
edly. The moment he saw Fridoline I was sure he recognized her, 
and his surprise was unequivocal; while she, on the other hand, 
bowed when L introdiiced them, with the perfect sang-froid and 
unconcern of a stranger, and soon afterward rose and took leave. 


122 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


The door had scarcely closed when my relation exclaimed, ' Where, 
in Heaven’s name, did you pick up that girl?’ 

“ ‘ I do not know what you mean by picking up,’ I replied. ' She 
is Mademoiselle Fridoline, the most rising actress in London, and a 
particular friend of my own. ’ 

“ ‘ Oh!’ returned my cousin; ' so that is little Fridoline. Well, 
I am glad you like her, and perhaps you can tell me something 
about her past history. ’ 

I was obliged to confess that I could not, as there was consider- 
able mystery attached to Fridoline, and it was not even known to 
what country she belonged. 

“ ' Then,’ he answered, ‘ I can give you some slight information 
on the subject — at all events, of her life in Paris. ’ 

“ ‘ I never knew she had been there,’ said 1. 

“My cousin smiled. 'My apartment at home,’ continued he, 

‘ happens to face the house of a certain Russian prince ’ — he told 
me his name, but it was so hard and hideous that I have forgotten 
it — ' and sometimes, when I am tired after my day’s work, I amuse 
myself a little by watching the visitors of my princely ms-d vis. As 
to the men, I have seen, of course, English lords, French peers, 
German princes, by dozens, enter the hotel; but the women, bah I 
all of one class, and the worst. ’ 

“ ' Go on,’ I said, impatiently. ' What has all this to do with 
Fridoline?’ 

“ ' Well, only this. That on three different occasions last winter 
(and she may have been there scores of times before) I saw that girl 
descend from a fiacre, toward dusk, and enter the Hotel Danon. ’ 

“ ‘ Impossible!’ I cried. 

“ ‘ But 1 would swear to it,’ he answered. ‘ Hers is not a face to 
forget. Twice, certainly, I only saw her from my window, and I 
grant that I might have been mistaken; on the third occasion, how- 
ever, I happened to be passing the porte-cochere of the hotel exactly 
as she was entering, and the light falling full upon her face, I saw 
her as plainly as I do you now, and she and your friend are the same. ’ 

“ His manner was so odiously positive, that I was convinced of 
his truth in spite of myself; but I tried to account for the occur- 
rence by observing that, allowing it was true he had seen her, 
Fridoline might have some humble friend among the prince’s de- 
pendents whom she went to visit. 

“ 'Wrong, madame,’ he replied (I hated lum for his coolness); 

‘ this young person did not stop at the Hotel Danon to yisit any 
humble dependent, as I will show you. After my rencounter with 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


123 


her I returned to my apartment, and as it was a fine winter evening, 
I seated myself for awhile at the window and began watching the 
passers-by, and the opposite house; but certainly not thinking of 
the young girl who had just entered it. I had a particularly good 
view of the interior of one magnificent salon, the curtains and blinds 
of which were still unclosed, and, as the twilight was deepening 
and the room lighted by a blazing wood- fire, I could discern all the 
objects within with perfect distinctness. My eyes had not been 
long fixed upon this window, when a figure, crossing before the fire- 
place, arrested my attention; it crossed and recrossed, evidently 
pacing up and down the room, and I at once recognized our little 
friend of the fiacre. She had removed her bonnet and shawl, so 
that I could remark the extraordinary quantity of fair hair which 
fell round her neck and shoulders, and this, together with her small 
figure, gave a childishness of appearance that, seeing her in such a 
place, made me pity her. She was apparently waiting for some 
one, and in a state of the greatest agitation, her hands clasped 
together upon her bosom, her head bent down as she walked. It 
struck me at once she was some young girl who had been seduced 
by the prince, but of whom he had afterward tired, and that she 
had now come to make a last appeal to his honor or generosity. 
And this conviction was subsequently strengthened by the fact that 
I never again observed her enter the hotel. Well, after about ten 
minutes’ waiting, I saw her suddenly stop in her humed walk, and 
another figure entered and crossed the room toward her. For a 
moment the girl seemed to hesitate and shrink back; then she raised 
her head, and, stretching out her arms, fell upon the neck of her 
companion, in a long and apparently passionate embrace. After 
this, the two figures moved away to a darker part of the room, and 
I saw no more of them, for in a few moments an attendant entered 
and closed the curtains. I can not be actually positive that the 
other person was the prince, it was about his height, and in my 
opinion it was he; but I could swear in a court of justice that the 
young girl I saw that night in the Hotel Danon and your friend are 
the same. ’ 

‘‘ I hated my cousin,” proceeded Celeste, ” for his story, and told 
him so. However, this did not prevent me from being convinced of 
the truth of what he said. He is a matter-of-fact person, this cousin 
of mine, a Paris advocate, and not likely to be deceived by imagina- 
tion. But how deeply it grieved me 1 can not tell you. For a time 
Fridoline’s austere life seemed to me only hypocrisy — with her cot- 
tage, and her flowers, and her pets, after the life she must have led 


124 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIPFB. 


in Paris — and I could liave liated lier for lier pretended innocence. 
However, perhaps I was to blame. The recollection of my cousin’s 
story gradually wore off, and at last I have ceased to think of it; or 
rather, I am now convinced that, if Fridoline would, she might ex- 
plain away this occurrence, mysterious though it appears.” 

‘ ‘ And did you never give any hint to show that you were ac- 
quainted with something of her history, and thus lead her to speak 
of it herself?” 

“Oh, no,” answered Celeste, with true delicacy, which might 
have done credit to a duchess. “ As she wished to coneeal her past 
life, I could not let her know that I had become possessed of any 
clew to it. I have never even asked her if she has seen Paris.” 

Philip felt strangely depressed by what he had heard. Though 
far from believing to the full the evil that had been reported of 
Fridoline, he was now forced to doubt her; and it seemed to him 
that he was just beginning to disco vey* the falseness of every human 
being he had ever liked or admired. This thought naturally led 
him back to Rose, and the immediate object of his visit; and, after 
a pause, he remarked, with an air of assumed indifference, “ Well, 
Celeste, I must confess I have left off attempting to understand any 
of your sex. One after another all my early prejudices are vanish- 
ing.” 

The actress bpened her great black eyes. “ (So, he has found 
Rose out!) I hope you do not mean that I am changed?” she add- 
ed, aloud. 

“ ISio ” — replied Philip, “ but you have certainly altered in some 
things; for instance, a year ago I don’t think you would have gone 
to one of Count B ’s supper-parties.” 

“Count B ’s supper-parties! I enter Count B ’s house!” 

cried Celeste, in a burst of outraged innocence. “ And who tell 
you dat I go near dat monstre? I enter into his house!” In her 
indignation she tried to talk English. 

“Don’t be angry. Celeste,” said Philip, but his own cheek was 
very red; “ I was told that you were to be at his house to-night, and 
I believed it. Forgive me. ’ ’ 

“ Mon DieuF' said Celeste, resuming her own language, “ what 
could induce people to invent such wicked scandal? I, who am so 
exacting in my tastes, who unite under my roof all that is worthy 
and distinguished — I go to one of Count B — — ’s disgraceful parties, 
with chorus singers and such people! No, Mr. Earnscliffe, that is 
not the society I frequent; and I did not think so old a friend as 
yourself would have believed such infamies,” 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


125 


At another time Philip might have been amused at Celeste’s ex- 
cessive tone of injury, but he was too much taken up with other 
thoughts to heed it now. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, rising to take leave. I little 
thought of offending you when I made the remark. I am out of 
spirits, and scarcely know what I am talking about this morning.” 

Celeste’s anger was short-lived: and as she held his hand at part- 
ing, she looked very full in his face, and said, Pauwe ami! I be- 
lieve I understand your feelings far better than you do yourself.” 

The rest of the day lagged wearily to Philip. Proofs of Rose’s 
treachery seemed to confirm all that Seville had ever said of her, 
and once or twice he thought: “It would have been better to let 

her accept Count B ’s invitation, and break with her at once. 

Rose is not the first that has been false to me, and I could go abroad 
and forget her.” But then, again, her young face in its sorrow for 
her fault arose before him! He could not believe her to be worse 
than childish, and almost longed to rush to her house and ask her to 
forgive him for his suspicions. Philip’s own nature was so frank, 
that he shrunk with actual pain from the idea of being deceived; 
and he turned away from any thought of another’s unworthiness, 
until it had strengthend into certainty. Confiding, sensitive, and 
withal somewhat indolent, he was exactly a man to be deceived, 
not once, but dozens of times in his life, and Rose, with her beauty 
and guileless manner, was just the kind of woman most likely to 
deceive him. 

He dined at his club, and spent the evening there with two or 
three old acquaintances. One of them had just returned from Italy, 
and having seen Neville in Rome, had much to tell Philip about his 
friend, whose genius and cool eccentricity were creating quite a sen- 
sation among the English in the Eternal City. 

“ From some caprice,” he said, people want Neville to be the 
fashion, and a lion; but it won’t do. He says he has gone to Italy 
to work, and refuses nearly all invitations. Some fair Roman, I 
was told, even fell in love with his bronzed face (he looks like a 
Spaniard after all his wanderings) and contrived to let him know 
the tender nature of her feelings, but his answer was characteristic — 

‘ Signora, I have no time!’ Yet there was nothing churlish or self- 
ish about Neville; on the contrary, he is one of the best fellows in 
the world. One object, one desire, has taken told of him, and he can 
never lose sight of it, or be drawn away by pleasure either of the 
soul or senses. He will be a great artist!” 

Philip asked if he had done any large pictures lately. 


126 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 

“No, he was only studying, spending the entire days in the dif- 
ferent galleries, and in fine weather sketching in the Canipagna or 
among the ruins round Rome. He seems thoroughly happy, your 
friend Neville, and told me he hoped you would join him by next 
winter.” 

“ Perhaps I may, ” returned Philip. “I am very undecided at 
present, whether to go abroad for a year or two or not.” 

The conversation now turned into other channels; and about 
twelve o’clock Philip started to walk home. It was warm and 
starlight, and he enjoyed the beauty of the night in the quiet, un- 
disturbed streets. He sauntered along slowly, but when he had 
nearly reached his own lodging, a sudden fancy made him wish to 
extend his walk, and scarcely heeding which way he took, he went 
on toward the Regeut’s Park; he felt calmed by the influence of the 
stillness around him, and his mind recovering its usual frame, he 
thought less about Rose Elmslie than he had done all day. Gradu- 
ally he fell into one of his old reveries, and walked on and on, en- 
tirely lost in himself, and thinking of his starlight walks at Har- 
row, and the boyish poetic dreams which then filled his heart, until 
he was suddenly aroused by loud bursts of laughter, and a stream 
of light across his path. He looked up, and to his surprise became 

conscious that he was exactly opposite Count B ’s villa. The 

occurrence was purely accidental. Philip was incapable of attempt- 
ing to watch the movements of Rose, even had he still doubted her; 
and when he discovered where he was, his first impulse was either 
to pass the house quickly, or retrace his steps homeward. Some 
after- thought, however — perhaps one of those unaccountable pres- 
ages of evil which every one must so often have experienced in his 
own life — made him pause. 

“ I shall go home happier,” he thought, “ when I have seen the 
kind of a party from which I have saved little Rose!” 

But he had a nervous feeling all the same. The party was now 
at its height; and, to admit cool air to the heated revelers within, 
the curtains were withdrawn, and the windows on the ground-floor 
thrown wide open, so that where Philip stood he had a full view, 
through the shrubs in front of the house, of the interior of the sup- 
per-room. It was brilliantly lighted up with groups of wax-lights, 
wreathed round with artificial fiowers, and the night air was laden 
with the scents of costly viands, and wines, and perfumes. But 
this voluptuous refinement was confined only to the externals of the 
feast; the peals of laughter, and the tawdry theatrical dress of the 
female part of the guests left no doubt about the class to which 


PHILIP E^lRHSCLIFFE. 


127 


they' belonged. The men seemed mostly friends and associates 
Count B-; — ’s, gamblers, gentlemen, swindlers, and doubtful foreign 
noblemen. 

The uproarious merriment waxed louder and stronger, when 
suddenly, amidst those bold laughs and coarse jests, a sweet young 
voice smote on Philip’s ear, and made him turn pale. He took hold 
of the iron rail by which he was standing, and listened. Again and 
again he heard it, clear and joyous, the voice of Rose; and, with a 
desperate resolution, Philip resolved to stop and know all. 

Changing his position slightly, he saw her at the head of the 
table, on Count B ’s right hand, flushed and animated, and love- 

lier than ever. She was dressed in a little ballet-looking pink dress, 
her exquisite arms bare almost to her shoulder, and glittering with 
gems and bracelets, and a bouquet of white roses (the same which 
Philip had that day given her) in her bosom. There was not the 
slightest shade upon her features; she looked* as she felt, radiantly 
happy, in her beauty and her jewels, and the admiration she awak- 
ened, and forgetful of that morning, and everything else besides. 

Count B , evidently under the influence of his own champagne, 

was talking to her in low whispers, his arm over the back of her 
chair, and his eyes flxed upon her face. The rest of the guests were 
too fully occupied with themselves to observe them much; but 
Philip noted his earnest manner, and her low answers and averted 
eyes — noted them, as Lady Clara had once done before, when he, 

not Count B , was the recipient of her smiles and blushes, and 

whatever Clara had then felt, she was certainly avenged at the mo- 
ment. 

Philip’s of course was not the anguish of a boy robbed of his first 
pure love, or of a man suddenly awakening to a knowledge of his 
own dishonor. Rose had never been anything but a dancer; and 
there was, perhaps, in this last discovery of her true character, noth- 
ing to be wounded but Philip’s vanity. Still, amidst his disap- 
pointments, his own fancy had raised her to the place which should 
have been held by a worthier object. He had believed her erring — 
never lost; and now, as he saw her in an atmosphere whose very 
breath was corruption, surrounded by women from the lowest 
grades of her own profession, and receiving with smiles the whis- 
pered flatteries of a world-hardened sensualist like Count B , a 

sense of mingled disgust and regret came over him, which, without 
being agony, was very bitter. 

Suddenly there was a pause; and the count, striking on the table, 
announced to his guests that Miss Elmslie was going to sing. Rose 


128 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


had a very sweet voice, and had often sung to Philip when he was 
weary^ and miserable. 

“Bravo!” cried a pale young Frenchman opposite her. “ A song 
from la belle Rose! Attention!” And every one listened. 

“ What shall I sing?” said Rose. 

Several songs were proposed, but she turned to Count B , as 

though appealing to his preference. 

At first he scarcely understood her, then mentioned, as it chanced, 
a favorite ballad of Philip’s, and the one she had oftenest sung to 
him. He saw her face change a little. 

“ Kot that,” she said; “ any but that.” 

“And why not?” returned the count; “ if I wish it, why not 
that?” 

“ I have forgotten it,” pleaded Rose. 

“ But I have it,” he went on with the pertinacity of a half sober 
man; and then he whispered to her something which made her 
smile. 

“Well,” cried Rose; “ if 1 must; but give me some champagne 
first, my lips are too dry to sing.” 

He poured her out half a tumblerful, and she drank it oif, and 
began. Her voice faltered at first, then steadied; and except that 
it was louder and less modulated than usual, she went through the 
song well. 

Philip heard ‘her till she had finished — listened to the loud ap- 
plause that followed — watching her smiling thanks, and Count 

B -’s low praises and increasing warmth of manner; and then he 

turned away homeward. He had seen enough. He walked about 
a hundred yards away from the house, until the last faint sounds of 
the distant revel had died away, then he stopped. His arms were 
folded, and the dim light of the stars fell full upon his grave face. 

“ And among such people,” he exclaimed, “ I have spent my ex- 
istence! and to that very woman I was this morning ready to give 
my love, and even, in some measure, bind my future life. Good 
God! what a fool I have been! and how I have wasted all my hopes 
and energies! Well, the last illusion is over now; this little dancer 
has brought the finishing stroke to my belief in any human being, 
and I am free. Yes,” he went on, passionately; “ as free as a man 
without an affection or tie of life can be. It is all the same — fort- 
une, friends, wife, mistress — all'faithless!” 

The next day he left England. 


PHILIP BARKSCLIFFE. 


129 


CHAPTER XVII. 

When Philip awoke on the following morning after his arrival at 
Kersaint, the sun was shining brightly into his room. For a few 
seconds he could not remember where he was, or disengage his ad- 
ventures of the evening from the dreams of the night — dreams in 
which, it must be confessed, Marguerite had still held a prominent 
place. Gradually, however, his full consciousness returned; he re- 
called the quaint furniture of his sleeping-room, and the murmur- 
ing of the sea without, and he rose and began to dress. 

His toilet was just finished, when he heard a merry young voice 
immediately under his window, in conversation with another, 
whose high, loud tones he soon recognized as those of Manon; and 
drawing back the old-fashioned bolt of the casement, Philip opened 
it, and looked out. 

It was a sweet May morning; every trace of the storm of yester- 
day had disappeared, and only left the grass and trees more brightly 
green than before. The air came in fresh from the sea, which 
Philip now saw at the bottom of the garden, blue and sparkling, but 
still bearing small crested waves upon its bosom. The sea-gulls 
were floating happily among them, or skimming toward their nests 
among the rocks; the pigeons wheeled in circuits round the Manoir, 
their varied colors gleaming as they flew in the red morning sun; 
and a perfect chorus of blackbirds and 1 brushes arose from the or- 
chard, which, thick with pink blossoms, lay on the left side of the 
garden. The white sails of some fishing-boats, making their way 
up the Channel before the western breeze; and the tolling of a very 
distant church-bell, were all that belonged to humanity in the scene, 
until Philip, leaning somewhat through the open window, looked 
down; and he then saw his little friend of the previous evening and 
Manon— both so intent, however, in watching Ihe damages done by 
the rain to some of the garden flowers, that for the last few seconds 
they had been quite silent. 

Philip gazed at Marguerite intently; and, if he had thought her 
lovely the evening before, his admiration was now enhanced ten- 
fold. She had been for an hour or more in the open air, and her 
cheeks were in a perfect glow of health and freshness; her long hair 
—rather disordered, for she never wore a bonnet in the garden — 
hung about her face, and caught a thousand wavy reflections in the 

sunshine; her full, graceful figure showed to perfection in a close- 
5 


130 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


fitting holland dress; and, as she held it high out of the damp 
gravel — an unnecessary precaution, for it was already short enough 
— Philip remarked that not even the thick country-made shoes could 
conceal the symmetry of her little feet. In one hand she held a 
bouquet of such fiowers as the rain had spared; and Manon’s bas- 
ket of parsley and salads showed that they had already visited the 
kitchen garden. 

“ Do you think he will be very late?” cried Marguerite, sud- 
denly. 

” The English monsieur?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“ I hope so, poor gentleman! after such a wetting as he had yes- 
terday, there is nothing like a long night’s rest. I remember once, 
when 1 was a girl — it will be just six-and- thirty years next All-hal- 
lo ws — my father was returning from Quimper, one stormy night, 
and — ” 

“Yes, good Manon,” interrupted Marguerite. “ I remember all 
about it; and he was not drowned, you know. How disappointing 
it is,” she resumed to herself, “to think he will not be down for 
hours, perhaps! and I was up and dressed before five, in case he 
should wake early and want to see the garden. I hope the curtains 
of his room are not drawn, and then the sun may shine in, and 
wake him. Let us see!” and, running back a step or two. Mar- 
guerite looked up. 

There — leaning forward, so that he must have overheard every 
word she said— was the stranger. He bowed to her, and smiled, as 
their eyes met; but Marguerite blushed deeply, and thinking she 
had done something wrong in talking so loud under his window, 
she called hastily to Manon, and, without returning his salutation, 
ran away. Philip followed her with his eyes until she disappeared 
on the side of the orchard, and then, after nodding kindly to Ma- 
non, who all the time had been giving liim a series of bows and 
smiles, he prepared to descend. This was, however, not quite so 
easy a matter as one might think at first; the passages were so m- 
tricate, the turnings so endless, that Philip, at length, almost de 
spaired of finding the great staircase, and he was just making a 
third effort to do so, when he came upon a small, dark flight of 
winding-stairs, communicating with the lower part of the building, 
and down these he proceeded at once. At the bottom he met Ma- 
non, who was hastening to the kitchen with her basket of vegeta- 
bles, and her dignity was greatly wounded on discovering that mon 
sieur had descended by the servants’ stairs. She half proposed to 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


131 


accompany him again to his apartment, and conduct him down by 
the legitimate mode of descent ; but Philip interrupted her with a 
smile, and said he was glad to make acquaintance with all parts of 
the chateau, “which,” he added, “from the difficulty I had in 
finding my way, must be a very large building.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, ” returned Manon, “ it is a noble and beautiful 
place, and you would think so, could you have seen it in former 
days; I mean when we first came to live here. Now it may seem a 
little lonely, with only my master and mademoiselle, and not a serv- 
ant save me. But it is to wish, you see,” she added, confiden- 
tially; “ he can not bear a number of attendants about him, and one 
must not thwart the fancies of an invalid.” It was Manon’ s grand 
object in life to conceal her master’s poverty, and she took this early 
opportunity of accounting to the stranger for the scantiness of the 
household. 

“ I fear Mr. St. John is far from well,” remarked Philip. 

Manon looked very grave. “ He is greatly changed in the last 
year,” she replied; “and unless he improves much during this 
summei’, he will never get through another such winter as the last.” 

“ The climate must be severe here,” said Philip. 

“ Well, it is not very cold — not nearly so cold as in Paris, for 
example, where I lived with my dear mistress for two years after 
her marriage — but it is damp and foggy, and so much exposed to 
storms, that it is almost impossible for an invalid to get out from 
November till May. It does not hurt those in health — my young 
lady is as blooming as a rose in the dreariest weather, and of course 
nothing can hurt njp, a Breton peasant — but for my master, Ker- 
saint is no good place. ’ ’ 

“ His daughter seems unaware that Mr. St. John is in any dan- 
ger,” observed Philip. 

“ And may the hon Dieu forbid that she should be otherwise,” 
returned Manon, hastily. “ She will have sorrow enough when he 
is gone, and she is thrown upon strangers, without having trouble 
forced upon her now. I like to see her smiling and joyous, my 
poor child; and I am glad, monsieur, very glad, that you have ar- 
rived to bear her and my master a little company. There are none 
in this neighborhood fit for them to associate with.” 

Philip quite won Manon ’s heart by his evident interest in her 
master’s health; and, after a few minutes, she volunteered to show 
him round the garden. “Mademoiselle is there,” she said, “and 
as my master will not be down quite yet, perhaps monsieur would 
like to walk for half an hour on the terrace before breakfast.” 


132 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 


But Philip said he should find his way perfectly this time, and, 
leaving Manon to proceed to her kitchen duties, he went out 
through a low archway into the garden. The good order of the 
flower-borders struck him immediately as contrasted with the deso- 
late-looking housOj broken flights of steps, and the disordered state 
of the walls and fences. He judged rightly that the little fairy of 
his night’s dreams presided over this portion of the garden, and he 
looked on all sides in search of her; but she was nowhere visible. 
Then he walked to the further end, and reached the terrace, from 
whence he could see over the adjoining orchards and meadows — but 
still no Marguerite. 

“ Can she really be offended,” thought Philip, “ because I over- 
heard her talking of me? No, she is too child-like for lhat.” 

He took a few turns, every moment expecting to see her, but 
when a quarter of an hour passed on, and she did not appear, he 
grew impatient; and, spying a flight of moss-grown steps, which led 
down to the sands, he resolved to go and walk by the sea-side for an 
hour, and forget this capricious little lady. He sprung down, three 
steps at once, and suddenly discovered Marguerite, seated at the 
bend of the wall, on a projecting slab of granite, and making up 
bouquets from a heap of spring flowers in her lap. Philip stopped 
short. 

“Good-morning, mademoiselle.” 

“ Good- morning.” She turned her face quite away from him, 
with a feeling of shyness she had never before experienced in her 
life. Had she really said something so wrong when he overheard her? 

‘ ‘ I thought you were lost, and have been ^searching for you all 
over the garden. ” No answer. She could not confess that she had 
run away from him. 

“Ah!” said Philip, next; “ I see, you are very angry with me 
for overhearing you; but it was not my fault. I opened my win- 
dow, to listen to the birds, and I could not help it, if your voice 
was amongst them — indeed, at first I did not distinguish it from 
theirs?” 

Marguerite looked up at him quickly, and the expression of 
his face showed her her mistake: he thought her offended. Young 
as she was, this idea gave her pleasure, and, to keep it up she tried 
hard not to smile; then — shaking her curls so as to conceal her face 
— bent down again, and went on with her bouquets. Philip seated 
himself on the step, at her feet, and began watching her very 
gravely; but Marguerite could not get on half so well with her work 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


133 


now, as she had done before he came, and once or twice the flowers 
slipped from her hands as she was fastening them. 

“ Well,” said Philip, at last, “ I am sure I could make up bou- 
quets better than you do. You place all the wrong colors together;” 
and he took the scissors from her hand, and some of the best flow- 
ers from her collection, and laying them on the steps beside him, 
began very leisurely to arrange them. He had naturally a good eye 
for harmony of color, but he now, purposely, assorted them as ill as 
he could. Yellow primroses he placed by pink hawthorn, violets 
with the bright blue hepatica, so that the color of each was destroyed 
by its neighbor; then he tied them in prim, regular bunches, each 
stalk exactly the same length, and with no mixture of green leaves, 
but all the time preserving a countenance of the most perfect seri- 
ousness, as though he were performing the task to the best of his 
ability. Marguerite looked at him from under her long eyelashes, 
and tried hard to repress a sly smile at the hideous little bouquets, 
and Philip’s air of satisfaction with himself. But it would not do, 
and at length she was forced to cover the lower part of her face with 
one hand. Philip looked up, and saw her eyes laughing. 

“ I flatter myself mine are arranged with taste,” he remarked. 

Here Marguerite could hold out no longer; clasping her hands to- 
gether in her lap, she went into such a long fit of childish laughter 
as did Philip good to hear. It was a minute or two before she could 
speak; at length she cried, “So that is English taste! and those 
are English nosegays! ^Oh! I am glad I have seen them. ” And 
again she broke into a clear, merry laugh. 

Philip looked astonished. 

“Is it possible you do not admire them?” he said. “ Well, I 
thought they were perfect — so neat and regular; but, of course, you 
are right. Suppose you give me a lesson : I want to know how 
everything is done in Brittany. ’ ’ 

He cut all the strings, and mixing the flowers together, returned 
them into Marguerite’s lap. This little scene had made her feel 
perfectly at her ease with him again; and, believing that he was 
quite in earnest in his wish to learn, she gathered up the flowers in 
her frock, and, seating herself on the step close beside him, said she 
would teach him. The lesson began, and lasted long. Philip was 
very slow to learn; and Marguerite had to give him a thousand 
practical instructions, which he never could master until the second 
or third trial. She was quite interested and serious, and her impa- 
tience was great when her long bright curls would fall upon their 
work and interrupt them. 


134 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


Am I very slow?’’ asked Philip, as Marguerite was trying to 
bend his fingers to their task. 

‘‘ Well,” she answered, not slow — but I think you a little — ” 

What? I like to hear my faults.” 

** A little perverse. Your hands do not look awkward, and yet 
you will not learn to hold the flowers more lightly. Now, let me 
show you once more, or you will make it look like another English 
nosegay;” and she knelt on the step beneath him, in her earnest- 
ness guiding his hands with her own, and every minute looking up 
and smiling in his face. 

“You have made that last one beautifully!” she exclaimed; 
“ better than mine! I believe, after all, you only pretended to take 
a lesson, and have been arranging flowers all your life.” 

“ Well, it is so very pleasant to learn!” answered Philip. 

“ Is it? Ah! not always. I do not like my irregular verbs with 
Monsieur le Cure, par example; but I might like to learn from some 
people.” 

“ From me, perhaps?” 

“ Y — es, perhaps.” 

“ A very hesitating answer. I am sorry I look so bad-tempered.” 

“ Oh! it is not that, I assure you, for I told Manon I never liked 
any face so much as yours before. But, then, you are too young 
for a master. Just when you meant to be very severe, I should 
look in your face and — laugh.” 

“ Then I must not offer to give you lessons in English pronunci- 
ation, as I had intended.” 

“Yes, yes, you may; only, you must promise not to be too se- 
vere, and not to be offended, if I sometimes forget to be grave.” 

At last all the flowers were gone, and they had finished four bou- 
quets. 

“ One for my father, one for you, and one a piece for Manon and 
me.” 

“And who is this for?” he asked, taking up the one in which 
Marguerite had collected all the most delicate and sweet-scented 
flowers, even to a rosebud, which she had discovered under shelter 
of the terrace. 

“ That is for father, of course; but you shall have the next best.” 

“ And which for yourself, mademoiselle?” 

“ Well, Manon must choose, and whichever is left is for me. Do 
not call me mademoiselle, please. Father says, as long as 1 am a 
child, every one should call me Marguerite,” 

“ Are you only a child still?” 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


135 


“ Oh!” she answered, smiling, “ I am, indeed. I often wish that 
I were older and wiser for his sake; but in two months I shall be 
sixteen, and that, you know, is getting on toward being grown-up. 
Shall we go down to the beach before breakfast?” 

She ran lightly down the steps, and they were soon close to* the 
sea. It was now low water, and there was a wide expanse of shin- 
ing dry sand, stretching far away before them. Philip felt a new 
sense of youth and life as they walked, and Marguerite, holding her 
flowers, her upturned face more blooming than they, and her hair 
dancing about over her shoulders, was soon talking to him with all 
the unrestraint of the previous evening. 

She possessed a rare charm— one with which he had never before 
chanced to be thrown in contact — that of perfect innocence. And 
Philip, who, a few weeks back, had pronounced his last youthful 
illusion over, now became conscious, while he gazed into this young 
face and read, through all her child-like manner, the deep, tender 
nature of Marguerite — that the true illusion of life — the first love 
which bathes the whole earth in golden glory— had for him never 
yet dawned. 


CHAPTER XVm. 

Philip’s childhood, after his parent’s death, having been passed 
exclusively among his own sex, he had never, as a boy, known the 
sweet love of a mother or sister; and, as he grew up, the women 
with whom he had been most intimate were Clara St. Leger and her 
mother — the one a mere woman of the world, the other cold and 
unnatural from her education. In society he had certainly met 
hundreds of young ladies — many of them lovely, all, of course, in- 
nocent and interesting, and ready to become excellent wives — but 
these were uniformly “ young ladies, ” well-trained, well-placed, 
well-looked after, and they had been trotted out in rotation before 
Philip without one of them effecting more than the awakening of a 
passing fancy in his mind. The miserable failure of his married 
life had been his next trial of what ought to be love, and the society 
of actresses the crowning stroke of his experience. 

No wonder the companionship of Marguerite seemed something 
far apart from all he had known before! No wonder, as they 
walked along, Philip forgot the wide gulf, which, in reality, sepa- 
rated them. He already world- stained and wear}^, and bound by a 
tie which must forever shut him out of the pale of all pure love; 
Marguerite, with the holiness of childhood yet upon her forehead. 


136 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


and no knowledge of life, except that the sky was blue above her, 
and that God was good. He only felt that a sinless nature was, at 
length, before him, and that the true love he had written about, but 
never found, would some day awaken in Marguerite’s heart — for 
whom? 

“You look thoughtful, monsieur, that is your grave look now.” 

“ I believe my looks are always grave.” 

“ No; not when we were tying up the flowers. Then you looked 
very happy.” 

“ Are you often grave, Marguerite?” 

“Not very often; but sometimes I am more than grave. When 
my father looks so pale, and begins to speak of my mother, and 
that it would be far better for him to be with her, I come out, alone, 
on the shore, and feel something here ” — she laid her hand on her 
heart — “ which I can not describe— a thick, dull weight it is— and 
then I almost wish to die. I seldom feel this great pain, however, 
except when it is connected with father; but often of an evening, 
when the sun is down, and the stars are coming out one by one over 
the sea, and I sit by the window alone, or, in summer, down on 
the terrace, I feel, not unhappy — that is not the word — but I miss 
something, you understand, and then I am very grave; and the 
more beautiful the sea and stars look, the more I feel lonely. I 
never felt this when I was younger, only the last year or two; and 
yet I have my father and Manon with me just the same now as for- 
merly. Did you ever feel the same?” 

“ Yes, 3^ears ago, when I was your age,” replied Philip. 

“ But you are not very old now.” 

“ Old enough to gaze at the stars without becoming sad.” 

She looked at him quickly, to be quite sure he was not laughing 
at her, but there was no smile on his face. 

“ Have you any mother?” she asked, softly, and touching his 
hand with her own. 

“ She died when I was a young child.” 

“ Or sister, or — ” 

“ I have no one,” answered Philip, shortly. 

“ Ah!” — and the little hand closed upon his — “ and I have no one 
but my father. But when you have one person to love, you do not 
wish for any other. It must be dreadful to be quite alone.” After 
a pause she resumed timidly: “ Did 3mu say you would remain half 
the summer in Bretagne?” 

“ Yes,” replied Philip; “ what I had already seen of it made me 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


137 


wish to stay; but, since yesterday, I have quite determined upon 
doing so.” 

It was one of those accustomed compliments which pass current, 
and mean nothing in society: but Marguerite’s heart actually 
throbbed. “ That is since he has known me, ” she thought. Then 
she added, aloud, I shall think I have a brother while you are 
here.” 

They had now wandered to some distance on the sands, and a 
clear, wide stream of fresh water, running toward the sea, formed a 
barrier to their further progress. They were just hesitating about 
fording it, and Marguerite was saying she had done so dozens of 
times before, when one of them happening to turn, descried Manon, 
barely visible on the terrace, in the far distance, waving her arms 
and throwing up her apron in a wild state of excitement. The 
breakfast was ready, and poor Manon for some minutes — with feel- 
ings none but a cook can appreciate — had been watching the guest 
walk further and further away from his meal, and feeling herself 
powerless to recall him. When they halted, her hopes of being 
seen revived; and she soon thankfully perceived that they had 
understood her signals, so she ran in to keep the cotfee hot, and to 
tell her master that they were coming. 

Mr. St. John was seated in his library — the room in which they 
were to breakfast — ^wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and with a 
book already in his hand. This room was the warmest in the 
house, being smaller than most of the others, and with a southern 
aspect; and here the invalid generally spent the entire winter. The 
walls and ceiling were all of oak paneling. Scarcely any of the 
former, however, were to be seen, for well- stored book- cases stood 
on each side of the room. An English carpet covered the floor, and 
the worked cushions on the window-seats, the footstool and warm 
easy-chair, and a dozen little home-constructed luxuries, bore witness 
to the female care which presided over the occupant’s comfort. The 
window opened upon the garden, and Mr. St. John soon saw Philip 
and his daughter descending from the terrace, both looking animated, 
and Marguerite laughing merrily at something her companion was 
saying; and as the invalid watched them, evidently so well pleased 
with each other, a thought arose which caused a faint smile to wander 
across his face. Perhaps, had this vague hope been rendered in- 
to words it might have been — “ After all, it is possible that I may 
leave my child with a protector!” Their entrance, however, dis- 
pelled any such dreams for the present, and, after a cordial greeting, 
the trio were soon seated at their cheerful breakfast. 


138 


PHILIP EAR^TSCLIFFE. 


Philip did great justice to Manon’s provisions, all of which were 
excellent. Clear, strong coffee — such as he had vainly wished for 
with his own grand English cook— fresh eggs, broiled fish, caught 
that morning in the bay, butter of Manon’s own making, constitued 
the staple of the meal. Mr. St. John smiled at the hearty good- 
will with which his guest attacked his breakfast; and then turning 
to Marguerite, asked her why she eat so little. She could not reply 
that she was too happy to be hungry, which was the truth, but said 
Manon had cut her such a huge tartine early in the morning, tliat 
she had no further appetite. 

“ Perhaps we walked too far,” added Philip. 

‘‘ Oh!” said Mr. St. John, “ ‘ too far ’ are words unknown to 
Marguerite. She spends the whole of her idle life out of- doors, in 
summer, and, I verily believe, never experiences such a thing as 
fatigue. Where did you get all these flowers, little one?!’ 

” I had such a hunt for them, father! The rain has beaten down 
the best, and I could only gather those which grew in very shel- 
tered places. Do you see that rosebud in yours? — the first this sum- 
mer, petit papa?” 

“ But you should have presented that to your visitor.” 

“ No, no! The first rose is always for you. But I have given 
Mr. Earnscliffe a lesson in bouquet-making this morning. It was so 
pleasant sitting on the terrace steps, in the warm sun; and do you 
know, father, just when we finished, I found out that he had only 
been pretending, and could make them as well as I all the time? 
N’eat ce pas quHl est mechant ce monsieurV" 

The conversation went on merrily, and Mr. St. John appeared in 
such good spirits, and so animated, that Philip thought he must 
have been mistaken in considering him dangerously ill. They 
talked much about the inhabitants and antiquities of Brittany, and 
Mr. St. John’s invitation of the previous evening, to remain, at least 
for some days, at Kersaint, was repeated, seconded by an eloquent 
look from Marguerite, and cordially accepted by Philip. He felt 
that he was with old friends already. 

After breakfast, when Marguerite had retired to confer with Ma- 
non on domestic matters, Earnscliffe began to notice his host’s ex- 
tensive collection of books, and led him on gradually to speak of 
them, and of himself. 

My books have been my sole friends, except my child, for six 
teen years,” said Mr. St. John; ” and T have grown so accustomed 
to look upon them in the light of human beings, that I scarcely now 
am conscious of the absence of other companionship. At your time 


PHILIP EARKSCLIPFE. 


139 


of life, such an existence as mine must appear a kind of living 
death. It is only after a man has outlived ambition, and lost the 
ties of domestic life, that he can find in himself a happier resting- 
place than in the world. Are you anything of a book- worm like 
myself? If so, in this case, nearest the fire-place, there are some 
rare works likely to interest you; and should we have wet weather 
during your stay at Kersaint, you might find a day’s employment 
among them.” 

Philip thought that Marguerite’s face would be better reading 
than the somewhat ponderous volumes alluded to by her father. 
However, he entered with animation into the subject which formed 
the one interest of the invalid’s life, and. they were soon deep in lit- 
erary talk. Mr. St. John had been so long absent from England, 
that he was anxious to hear about all the new writers of the day; 
and had also numbers of old friends to inquire for, most of whom 
were now either dead or retired from their active life. 

” Then, who is the most popular writer of fiction now?” he 
asked, at length. 

Philip knew that his own was one of the rising names in the field 
of romantic literature; he replied, however, by naming several 
others of the more distinguished authors. 

” And of poetry?” 

” Well, that is easily replied to — none. Since the galaxy of poetic 
genius, which arose in Germany and England early in this century, 
the race seems to have died out. Writers of poems we have many, 
and one whose thoughts, when not utterly obscured by affectation, 
are so sweet — his word-painting so true — that one is half-tempted 
at times to call him a poet. Still, not even his will be a lasting 
fame. We have no colossal genius now that, like Shakespeare, or 
Dante, or Cervantes, can create at once and forever an absorbing in- 
terest — take fast hold upon the hearts of all classes of readers, and 
become a familiar household god beyond the power of fashion 
to cast down. Wordsworth and Moore, certainly, still live; but 
they belong to the past. England has now no great poet. 
And Prance, in my opinion, has never had one. Fond as I am 
of some portions of French literature, their artificial, monotonous 
verse — with the single exception of Beranger’s songs, perhaps — 
sends me to sleep. But every day I make my little daughter read 
aloud to me some of our own Milton or Shakespeare; if she is too 
young fully to understand them, she can yet read well; and would 
you believe, sir, that hour is pleasanter to me than the remaining 
ten of my own studies — so fond are we all of anything which seems 


140 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


tx) connect genius with ourselves? and the child’s voice makes me 
actually feel those glorious thoughts my own more than all the an- 
notations upon them that ever were written.” 

Philip said he could well believe this, and after a minute or two 
added, simply — “ Your daughter is very lovely, sir.” 

“ Is she so?” returned Mr. St. John, almost starting. ” Well, I 
never thought about it before. Of course, she is fair in my eyes; 
but I have not yet considered that she would be called beautiful by 
others. It is possible,” he added, dreamily, ‘‘she is like her 
mother.” 

His face relapsed into its habitual melancholy at this recollection 
— it always did so at any allusion to his wife — and Philip began to 
think that her death must have been the origin of Mr. St. John’s 
disinclination for the world. 

” Shall you venture out to-day?” he inquired, hoping to change 
his thoughts. 

“ No, I thank you. The ground is still damp, and the wind too 
uncertain for me. But you must not remain in the house this fine 
spring day on my account. See, Marguerite is already in the gar- 
den, doubtless expecting you to join her for a walk.” 

Philip saw that the invalid preferred being alone, and he was 
soon by Marguerite’s side in the garden, helping her to tie up some 
flowers that had . suffered from the rain. When they had finished, 
she proposed a long walk; and, crossing the orchard, they started 
through heaths and forests to some ruins about a league distant. 

Marguerite did not care much for wet paths, and, in taking Earns- 
cliffe, a short way of her own discovery, sprung lightly over streams 
and bushes in a manner rather surprising to eyes only accustomed 
to London young ladies. A little straw bonnet, which the wind 
blew incessantly from her head, and a scarf round her throat, were 
the only additions to her morning dress; and yet, thus attired, and 
running wild in the wildest parts of Brittany, no stranger could 
have met Marguerite without being struck by her easy, high-born 
carriage, and the natural grace which made everything she wore 
becoming. She was in high spirits at having to conduct Philip, 
and pointed out to him, as they went along, all her favorite sum- 
mer haunts. 

After traversing a forest of fir-trees — whose peculiar odor in the 
warm sun struck Marguerite on that morning as more than usually 
fragrant — they reached a wide tract of heath, an angle of which 
must be crossed before reaching the gentle eminence where stood 
the ruined chapel. It was a scene rendered grand in its fiat monot- 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFFE. 


141 


ony by its utter loneliness. As far as the eye could reach, there 
was no habitation, no trace of man, nothing but the purple moor- 
lands, until they faded away into blue distance, or enormous tracts 
of untrodden fir forests. Life, however, was not wanting — that 
mysterious life, which rejoices everywhere, and is most exuberant 
where man is not. Myriads of gossamers floated on the golden air 
in their perishing fairy craft; wild bees murmured amidst the gorse: 
the grasshopper called joyously from his bed of wild thyme; and 
the lark hovered high in the pure space above, and unburdened his 
little heart of its melodious gladness. 

When they were about half-way across the heath. Marguerite 
pointed out to her companion a singular-looking heap of stones, 
which she told him were Druidic remains, and proposed that they 
should rest there awhile and look about them. “ For she added, 
naively, “ the walk will be too quickly over if we get on so fast.” 

Philip said he should enjoy nothing better; and they were soon 
side by side on the highest stone of the pile, which formed a kind 
of throne among the others. Bello, who accompanied them, but 
had lingered behind in the forest (where, on the score of old recol- 
lections, he was fond of taking private excursions after game on 
his own account), now came up, and extended his grisly length at 
their feet, shutting his eyes in the sun with luxurious enjoyment of 
its warmth, and forgetting in his happiness to bestow any more surly 
looks on the stranger. 

How fair it all is!” said Marguerite, at length. 

The words recalled to Philip that 'day when he sat on Hampstead 
Heath by little Fridoline, and she had made use of a nearly similar 
expression, and he contrasted in his own mind the immense differ- 
ence between these two young creatures; one so happy in her igno- 
rance of what is called life, and the other already weighed down 
under a premature knowledge of sin. 

“ Everything must be fair to you. Marguerite.” 

“ Why so?” 

“ Because you see everything through the medium of your own 
mind.” 

She paused. ” Then everything is fair to you?” 

“No, that is different,” 

“ Tell me why. Do you not see things through the medium of 
your mind?” 

“ Certainly I do. But — ” 

“ Then they must be fair to you, likewise.” 


142 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


“ I am afraid not; their beauty is more in the heart which looks 
at them, than in themselves. ’ ’ 

She shook her head. You know better than I do, of course; 
but still 1 think the sky must be as blue, and the air as fresh, to you 
as to me.” 

Everything seems fair and fresh this morning. Marguerite, he 
replied softly. 

“ Does it? lam so glad,” and he turned her sweet face to his 
with an expression which made Philip withdraw his gaze^ and de* 
termined to make her no more pretty speeches. 

What do you do at home?” she asked next. This was a trying 
question; for few of Philip’s pursuits had been such as he cared to 
disclose to Marguerite. However, she was unsuspicious as a child, 
and listened with interest to all he chose to tell her — of dinner-par- 
ties and balls, and the opera and the parks, and what people did at 
all these places. 

“ And what is London like?” she inquired, when he paused. 
” Is it at all like Quimper? I have been there twice to the fair, and 
that is a very large town, too.” 

Philip tried to describe a great city. She listened with wondering 
eyes to his accounts of brilliant shops, and streets, and carriages, 
and thought, on the whole, that it must be better than Kersaint. 
However, she quickly retracted this opinion on hearing that the air 
was generally too foggy to allow you to see the blue sky, and that 
there were no birds or flowers, very few trees, and those black. 

“ I will never go to London, then,” she cried, “or at least not to 
stay there. Bretagne is better. ”* 

Poor child, as she said these words, seated by Philip’s side, with 
the May sun on her cheek, and the delicious feeling of youth and 
freedom at her heart, how little did she dream where and how her 
future life was to be passed! 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ How long have we been here, I wonder?” said Marguerite, at 
length. Philip looked at his watch, and replied that it was two 
hours since they left home. 

“ And we are not half-way to the chapel yet, and have part of 
another forest still to cross!” cried Marguerite, jumping lightly 
down. “ You always make me forget the time, monsieur. Come, 
Bello.” 

Philip was quickly at her side, and once more they proceeded on 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPB. 


143 


their walk. Every object on the way, a stream glittering over white 
pebbles, an azure butterfly hovering upon some wood- anemone, a 
solitaiy primrose at the foot of an old hawthorn — afforded perfect 
pleasure to Marguerite; and Philip, who had been bored to death 
dozens of times by affected enthusiasm on such subjects, delighted 
in listening to her childish admiration of all the common things of 
nature. Marguerite possessed the rare gift of language — not book 
language, she had read too little for that, but an unusual and even 
poetic turn of expression, when speaking on ordinary subjects, 
which prevented anything she said from sounding commonplace; 
and her slightly foreign accent and sonorous voice only added to 
the charm. 

Once or twice this morning, Philip had already felt that they both 
would be in danger by the continuance of this intimate companion- 
ship. His own heart whispered that he could not long remain un- 
moved at the gaze of her clear eyes, and the pressure of her small 
hand; while for Marguerite, her excessive youth and innocence 
made it only too likely that her first and natural love might be 
awakened for him. Philip was strictly a man of honor, and he 
said to himself, “ This walk shall be the jast.” But he could not 
now restrain the happiness of his companion, or assume a distant 
manner toward her, while he remained a guest in her father’s house; 
he could only resolve for the future, and be content with the pres- 
ent; and he was — perfectly content. 

They had walked for nearly a mile, when the ground began to 
rise, and solitary groups of trees stood out here and there, as senti- 
nels of the forest which they were now about to enter. Bello 
bounded off with a low bark after some wild animal, whose track 
he had suddenly discovered, and was soon lost among the deepening 
shadows; while Marguerite conducted her companion to a small by- 
path, along which, and through the densest part of the forest, lay a 
near way to the ruins. 

“ There are no gamekeepers to interfere with Bello’s amuse- 
ments?’’ remarked Philip. 

Gamekeepers?” echoed Marguerite. 

“Yes; garde chasses, as you call them.” 

“Oh! I believe there are some; but the forests are so large we 
never meet them, and, besides, every one knows my father, and 
would not hurt his dog. But do look round,” she cried, “ and tell 
me if there are forests like these in England.” 

The mass of foliage around them was indeed singularly beautiful 
in its variety and early summer freshness. Ash predominated 


144 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


among the larger trees, but there was also a thick undergrowth of 
cherry, aspen, buckthorn, and wild apple, the latter now rich in scent 
and blossom. They walked on noiselessly upon the thick, long 
moss, enjoying the peculiar sweetness of the forest air, and the 
sounds of existence with which they were surrounded; the cooing 
of the wood -dove, the measured cry of the lapwing, the happy song 
of the thrush, and the confused hum of thousands of unseen in- 
sects. For, again, in this solitude, so rarely trodden by human foot, 
might be heard, even more audibly than upon the heath, the beat- 
ing of that immense pulse of life which eternally proceeds from and 
returns to God, unknown, uncared for, save by Him. 

After a time. Marguerite pointed to what seemed more a deer- 
track than a path, upon the left hand, and saying that was their 
nearest way, she led Philip still further into the recesses of the for- 
est. So dense, however, was the chaos of vegetation, that their 
progress was frequently impeded, and at every step the scene grew 
more wildly grand. Here and there some huge oak, overthrown 
half a century before by age or storm, lay, still supported in its pon- 
derous decay by the stems of the surrounding trees; while bright 
young creepers, on which the midday sun now glistened, interlaced 
its trunk in a thousand graceful festoons, that formed aiiy bridges 
for the birds and squirrels; and in some places the earth itself ap- 
peared to have been convulsively rent asunder at some former period, 
and was traversed by numerous ravines, whose fissures were now 
partially overhung with briers and huge projecting rocks. 

Suddenl}*^ an opening amidst the bushes discovered, almost at 
their feet, and at some distance beneath them, a large sheet of water, 
completely studded over with water-lilies. The wood-pigeons were 
skimming across it, the kingfisher sparkling like a gem amidst the 
fiag- rushes on its banks, while one solitary heron sat patiently 
watching for prey among the lightning-scathed boughs of a distant 
willow. 

This I call my lake!” cried Marguerite, pointing to the dark 
blue water. “ I discovered it first when I was quite a child; and 
like it better than all the others in the forest. There are not water- 
lilies anywhere but here; and when it is very hot weather, I come 
and sit for hours by that large mossy rock — ” 

“Surely you do not come alone, to this wild spot?” interrupted 
Philip. 

“ Why not? it is not too far for my father to venture; and when 
Manon does take a walk, which is very seldom, except to church, 
she prefers going into town, and does not care for my walks. She 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFFE. 


145 


says there are so many snakes in the forest, and especially by the 
lake— fancy being afraid of the beautiful blue and gold water- 
snakes!” 

‘‘ And do you never fear to meet any one in your wanderings?” 

Oh, I am very glad: par example, if I meet Guide and Bon 
Affut, the wood-cutters. They lay down their axes, and always 
have a chat with the ‘ little queen, ’ as they call me. And if I meet 
robbers, why I have nothing to lose; and you, old Bello, to protect 
me,” and she stretched out her hand to the hound, who had re- 
joined them. Philip looked in wonder at this fair young girl, with 
her noble bearing, and innate grace of soul, who wandered alone 
through these forests without an idea of danger, and thought it a 
great pleasure to chat with Guide, and Bon Affut — leading a life of 
companionless, unchecked freedom, and yet with a refinement in 
her face and manner a duchess might have envied. He was right 
when he said Marguerite would be a new study for him. 

'‘We must not linger,” she exclaimed; “the sun already darts 
across the silver beech; it must be three o’clock.” Quitting the side 
of the lake, they once more began to ascend; and a quarter of an 
hour’s walking brought them into a beaten path which led to the 
ruins. When they were within a few yards from what appeared to 
be a sudden opening among the trees. Marguerite cried, “ Shut 
your eyes, monsieur, and give me your hand. ’ ’ 

Philip, as may be supposed, willingly obeyed; and she led him on 
(her face lighting up with the expectation of his surprise) into the 
ruined chapel, which the trees had hitherto entirely screened from 
their sight. Then placing him by the window that she considered 
the best point of view, quitted his hand abruptly, and told him to 
look around. 

“ You are indeed a fairy!” was Philip’s first exclamation. “ A 
moment ago we were in the gloomy depths of the forest, and 
now — ” He looked around before finishing the sentence, and then 
acknowledged that a fairer scene had seldom been spread before 
him. The little chapel, which stood considerably elevated in the 
very center of the forest, although entirely in ruins, still retained 
some traces of its former beauty in a few delicate columns and 
pointed arches, and one exquisitely carved rose window. The ac- 
cumulation of soil within the walls amounted to eighteen or twenty 
feet, and in one part enabled a good climber to reach the highest 
fragment of the ruin; and Marguerite had placed Philip close beside 
the eastern window, which commanded an extensive view of the 
surrounding country. At their feet lay, first, the forest itself, its 


146 


PHILIP BARHSCLIFFE. 


different hues of foliage blending softly in the slanting sun; beyond 
that, wide tracts of purple lowlands, dotted over with an occasional 
church tower, or the remains of some old feudal castle; while, as a 
background to the whole, rose the sea, rivaling and exceeding in its 
intense blue the cloudless sky above them. 

As Philip still gazed upon the prospect without speaking, an im- 
mense sea-eagle floated slowly past., ignorant of the presence of man 
so near his habitation, and adding a strange sense of wildness to the 
whole scene. After hovering a few seconds, so close they might 
almost hear the movements of his graceful black wings he suddenly 
made a swoop upon the forest beneath them and reappeared holding 
his prey in his talons. Marguerite pointed out his nest upon the 
summit of a high oak, whither be presently flew with his prize, and 
added, “ I know him, and his mate well, and often sit here and 
watch them. The young will be fledged next month. But we must 
now go to the very top of the ruin, and you will see Quimper Cathe- 
dral, if the distance is quite clear. I hope you are a good climber.” 

She flew with the lightness of a young roe up the loose stones and 
broken parapets, and Philip was quickly beside her. The kind of 
platform upon which they stood was only a few yards square, and 
on one side there still remained a low crumbling wall, three or four 
feet high; on the others it was completely unprotected : and it re- 
quired a clear head to look down upon the deep gulf of rocks and 
foliage beneath. 

‘‘You can just see the cathedral,” said Marguerite, “ like a silver 
dot in the distance. But you are looking at me again; you must 
follow the direction of my finger;” and she made him bend his head 
to the level of her hand. Philip ..was almost as slow in discovering 
Quimper Cathedral as he had been in learning bouquet-making; 
however, he succeeded at length, and he then praised the whole fair 
landscape in terms that delighted Marguerite. 

“ It is so pleasant here,” she cried; “ I wish we could sit down 
for a time and rest, but I am afraid the ground is not dry enough. ’ ’ 

“ Most assuredly it is not,” returned Philip; “but what should 
prevent you, however, from resting upon the wall?” 

“Well ” — Marguerite hesitated. “ I think it is rather dangerous. 
Father tells me never to lean over this parapet.” 

“ But if I hold you?” 

“ It would tire you too much. ” 

“ Try at all events. ” 

Philip lifted her on the wall, which, though decayed, was still 
perfectly safe and firm, and supported her slight waist with his arm; 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


147 


while Marguerite, her bonnet discarded, and the fresh breeze play- 
ing in her hair, seemed drinking in the beauty around her with as 
much pleasure as though she saw it all for the first time, and only 
fearing occasionally that she was tiring Monsieur Earnscliffe. 

After Monsieur Earnscliffe’s wise resolutions of an hour ago, this 
near neighborhood was certainly a somewhat incoDsistent stroke of 
policy! Marguerite — never having learned propriety — had no more 
idea of indecorum when Philip’s arm supported her, than has a 
London young lady while waltzing at a hot ball with eighteen con- 
secutive strangers; she liked to enjoy the view — she wished to rest 
— it did not tire her companion to hold her, and that was all. But 
with Philip it was different. The soft touch of Marguerite’s long 
curls, as they fioated across his hand, her warm breath upon his 
cheek, her eyes turning every moment to his with their child-like 
caressing expression— all made his heart beat, and brought to him a 
bitterer sense of the never-ending tie which bound him to Clara 
than he had hitherto experienced. With all his knowledge of the 
world, a few hours in poor little Marguerite’s society had already 
taught him more of the great secret of our existence than he had 
ever yet learned. 

Would you not like my life better than London?” she asked, 
after both had been for some minutes silent. “ Confess that you 
would.” 

‘‘ Your life. Marguerite? I should indeed.” 

‘‘ Then why not choose it?” 

‘'We can not always choose what we prefer. Do you not wish 
for anything beyond that which you now possess?” 

She considered a moment. ” Nothing, but for father to be bet- 
ter.” 

“You are perfectly happy then?” 

“ Certainly. I have everything I could wish for in the world — I 
am well — I am free.” 

” And what would be your idea of misery?” 

“I do not know. I have never considered. I think, forme, 
perhaps, the greatest unhappiness would be, to be separated from 
my father, and confined in some close house in a town — in London, 
for example.” 

” My home!” remarked Philip. 

“Well, you acknowledged 3^ourself that you liked our forest bet- 
ter.” 

“ For a time, yes. But you, Marguerite, will not be a child for- 
ever. Some day you must learn to be a grown-up woman, and obey 


148 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


some one not your father, and give up wandering with Bon ALffdt, 
and sitting by the water-lilies. ” 

Marguerite opened her eyes wide at this programme of futurity. 
“ And why must I do all this?” she asked. 

“ Is there not a time when the existence of every young girl 
changes, and she becomes dependent upon the will of another— 
when ” — her full gaze troubled him — “ when she marries?” 

Marguerite went into a merry laugh. “ Marry — I marry! Oh! 
that is too good. Why, I never saw any gentleman yet, but father! 
Am I to marry Bon Affdt, or the Black Eagle, my only friends? — 
unfortunately, both have mates already.” (Poor Philip, how those 
unconscious words stung him.) ‘‘ No, Kersaint is not a place for 
weddings. I have only seen two — and those were among the fisher 
people — in my whole life!” and she laughed on at the ludicrous idea 
of any one being married from Kersaint. Young ladies in general 
blush when they speak of marriage; but Marguerite, being unin- 
formed on this point, seemed to think the subject very amusing. 

And you have never any visitors?” went on Philip. 

“ Never, except the cure. My father has invited a cousin of ours 
once or twice in the summer, but he has not come yet. ’ ' 

Philip immediately disliked this unknown relation; and remarked, 

Ah! it is the cousin, I see, who will rob Kersaint of its little 
queen.” 

“ The cousin? why he is older than father, and has had two 
wives already.” 

“ Oh, but you may have chance visitors, you know — a young art- 
ist, or a traveler, for example, suddenly benighted, like myself, and 
seeking shelter at Kersaint. He might stay on and on, and in time 
you would not dislike him, and of course from the first he would 
admire you — and then — ” 

Was the sun too bright, that Marguerite abruptly raised her hand 
to her eyes, and shaded her cheek? It could not be that, for she 
turned her face full toward the west, and away from Philip; and he 
felt that she was blushing. It was the first blush of womanly feel- 
ing that had ever dyed her cheek — and for him! In after years they 
neither of them forgot that moment. 

” I think we should go home,” said Marguerite, timidly, at last. 
” It is time now.” 

He lingered, still supporting her, and with an unusual emotion in 
his dark eye, as though a struggle were passing within. Then he 
replied, ‘‘Yes, it is time,” and lifting her gently to the ground, 
without looking at her face again. 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


149 


They took a different homeward route through the forest; it was 
even more beautiful than the other; but Marguerite spoke less now 
of the birds and flowers than when they came. She walked by 
Philip’s side, and he was very silent. But around her the whole 
air was golden. The waving branches of the trees were kindly arms 
held out to her as she passed; the very wind, as it swept freshly by, 
had a kiss for her cheek, and the turf rose lovingly under her feet 
Could it be the same lonely path she had so often trod before?” 

When she reached home, her father said she looked flushed, and 
must be tired; and, glad of an excuse, she ran up quickly into her 
own room; while Philip remained conversing with Mr. St. John 
upon the beauties of the walk, and the wild grandeur of Breton 
scenery in general. 

By her open window, with tearful eyes. Marguerite raised her 
face to the blue sky, and thanked God for the new-born happiness 
within her heart. 


CHAPTER XX. 

During Ihe remainder of that day. Marguerite continued some- 
what silent. She related to her father at dinner what a delightful 
walk they had taken, but she was not eloquent; it was greater 
pleasure to her to be still and think. Philip, however, conversed 
much with Mr. St. John, who was every hour better pleased with 
his guest. Between these two men— dissimilar though they might 
have appeared in many things — there was yet in reality sufficient 
resemblance to give them a harmony of ideas and feelings. Both 
had, in a certain measure, wearied of the world; both had been dis- 
appointed in domestic life; the one through death, the other through 
a miserable marriage; and in both was the same natural perception 
of the beautiful, and the power of appreciating keenly all true excel- 
lence in art or literature. Marguerite — without fully understanding 
the whole of their conversation — listened with delight. Her father’s 
voice (the only one except her nurse’s which had murmured love 
over her cradle) had been the gladness of her sixteen years of life, 
and the stranger’s — low and dangerously musical — was already 
sweeter to her ear than she dreamed of. 

“ Have you remarked much of the singularly deep religious feel- 
ings among the Breton peasants; or, as some would call it, of their 
superstition?” asked Mr. St. John, in the course of conversation. 

“ I have observed that the churches are generally crowded,” an- 


150 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


swered Philip; “ and when I have entered them during service, the 
people appeared to me earnest in their devotions.” 

“ Yes; but their devotion does not end with the service. In every 
action of a Breton’s life, from his birth to his grave, religion holds a 
prominent part. A wild religion it is, mixing up the dogmas of the 
Catholic Church with the weird traditions of their Celtic fore- 
fathers, in a manner that is certainly more poetic than orthodox. 
They will frequently, for instance, after attending mass on a saint’s 
day, conclude the evening by gathering round ‘the mystic ring of 
some prophetess or soothsayer, and listening with the greatest rev- 
erence to her visions of futurity — the maidens seeking for knowledge 
of their married life, the wives for the success and safe return of 
their sailor husbands. The priests, of course, discourage these prac- 
tices; but they have too much tact — and, indeed, some of them too 
much sympathy with the people — to run violently against old-estab- 
lished prejudice.” 

Father,” broke in Marguerite, gravely, “ many of old AnaYk’s 
prophecies come true. ” 

‘‘Oh,” said Mr. St. John, smiling, ‘‘if you acknowledge to all 
your superstitions, Marguerite, you will make Mr. Earnscliffe think 
you a complete little Bras Bretonne. You take Manon’s tales on 
too easy credence. ’ ’ 

“ What I could tell is no tale of Manon’s,” she replied 

” May we not hear it?” asked Philip. “ I should like to become 
acquainted with some specimens of Anai'k’s powers.” 

‘‘Well,” said Marguerite, looking away from him as she spoke, 
“ one evening, late in autumn, Manon and I were hurrying home 
from town. There had been violent storms for several days, and 
we did not care to linger on 4he road; but as we passed through 
Eosnareu — a little hamlet on the coast — a stream of light from one 
of the cabanes made Manon peep through the window, and she 
called me to look at a filerie — ” 

‘‘ Which— being translated?” interrupted Philip. 

“ Is a party of women who meet together to work and talk. Well, 
about a dozen of fisher- wives were seated round a reed fire, spin- 
ning and chatting merrily, and Jean Bruzec’s young wife was 
among them with her baby in her arms. Several other little chil- 
dren were sleeping before the fire at their mother’s feet, and they 
formed such a pretty group in the flickering blaze, that I liked to 
stop and look at them in spite of the cold. 

“ Suddenly the door opened on the other side of the cabane, and 
a gaunt, tall figure entered. Manon knew her, and crossed herself; 


PHILIP I5AKNSCLIFFE. 


151 


it was Anaik the prophetess. She was dressed in rags— a sort of 
wallet of red serge upon her shoulders, and her long gray hair fall- 
ing about her face. The women all rose and gave place to her on 
her entrance; but without noticing them she walked up to the fire 
and warmed her long bony hands over the fiame; then turning 
round to poor Louison, who was bending over her child, ^ she 
screamed to her in a voice that made me tremble, and with the most 
fearful look of pleasure upon her face — 

* Louison, wife of Bruzec, listen to me! Once, last winter, 
when the snow was falling fast, and the very birds of the air had 
found shelter, old Anai'k was out in the cold, blighting blast, with- 
out a roof to cover her. Anaik asked money or bread of Jean 
Bruzec, and he called her a groac’h — a drunken witch — and said she 
had bewitched his mother with her spells. And Aniak swore that 
Jean should never see another winter himself. Her words have 
come true! The last leaves of autumn still hang upon the trees; 
but among Carnac rocks lies Jean Bruzec, cold, and stark, and 
dead, and his child is fatherless!’ 

‘ ‘ One shriek burst from poor Louison, and she fell senseless with 
her babe unon the ground, while Anaik, laughing loud, left the 
cabane. We were so horrified that we ran on home; but next 
morning Bruno brought us word from the village that Bruzec’ s 
companions had returned without him; he fell overboard in a gale, 
two nights before, and was never seen again.” 

“And a coincidence like this, my child,” said Mr. St. John, 
“strengthens old Anaik’s reputation fourfold; and the dozens of 
times that she has prophesied falsely are forgotten. You believe 
even your own songs, little one — ” 

“Do you sing these Breton’s tales as well as narrate them?” 
asked Philip. 

“ I sing sometimes,” answered Marguerite; “ but I have never 
learned, and I hear no music except at church. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, that is poor Marguerite’s only music- lesson, ” said her fa- 
ther, ‘ ‘ and as nature has really given her a somewhat remarkable 
voice and ear, I am glad for her to have even this opportunity for 
improving herself. The service is extremely well performed at 

N , and the organ far superior to what you generally meet with 

in a remote country town.” 

“ To-morrow is Sunday,” said Marguerite, stroking Bello’s head, 
and looking away from the table. 

“ But you need not go to-morrow.” 


152 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


“Oh! not unless — ” she glanced at Philip. 

“ I should really like to hear the service,” he said. “And if you 
will allow me to accompany you — ” 

“ Of . course, ” returned Mr. St. John, quietly. “ Marguerite is 
only too happy to exhibit all our wonders; but I fear they can not 
give so much pleasure to any one else as herself. And now, as we 
have finished dinner, let us turn round to the window and look out 
awhile. I could bear the open air this soft evening. And do you, 
Marguerite, sing some of j^our Breton romances to Mr. Earnscliffe. ” 

They were dining in the large salle, one of whose bay-windows 
faced the west, and overlooked a kind of inland gulf, formed on 
this side by the sea. The setting sun threw its slanting beams upon 
Mr. St. John’s pale face, when they had wheeled him, wrapi)ed up 
in a cloak, to the open window, giving him, for the time, almost the 
hue of health; Philip, somewhat apart, stood leaning against one of 
the deep stone embrasures; and Marguerite, very fiushed at having 
to sing for the first time in her life before a stranger, was seated on 
a low, old-fashioned ottoman, in the center of the group, tuning her 
guitar, and not daring to look up at Earnscliffe. She played almost 
entirely from ear, for her father understood only enough of music 
to teach her the names of the notes, and excepting a few Scotch airs, 
which she had picked up from him, her songs were mostly wild 
Breton romances. She hesitated a little when all the strings were 
tuned, and turning to her father, asked what she should sing to Mr. 
Earnscliffe. 

“ What you like, darling. What was that I heard you singing 
to Manon yesterday morning in the garden?” 

“ Oh, that was only part of a dirge that I heard the peasants 
chanting for poor Loubette, but it is very melancholy.” 

“ I should like to hear it,” said Philip, speaking for the first time; 
“ I know none of these Breton songs.” 

Without reply. Marguerite Struck a few wild chords, and then, 
gradually subsiding into a low murmuring cadence for accompani- 
ment, she began. Mr. St. John said rightly that nature had gifted 
her with no common voice. It was full, deep, and remarkably 
powerful, and had all that exquisite freshness which belongs only 
to the very young. She was utterly untaught; but her ear and taste 
were alike so faultless, that Philip, fastidious though he was in mu- 
sic, soon listened to Marguerite’s singing with undisguised pleasure. 
He had rather dreaded hearing her, thinking it likely her father’s 
opinion was partial, and that a very mediocre performance would 
take somewhat from the charm of her beautiful face; but he was 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


153 


now forced to acknowledge that of all Marguerite’s gifts, her voice 
was infinitely the greatest. 

As she sung she lost the slight timidity which had made the first 
few notes tremble, and forgetting everything but her theme — half of 
which was an improvisation of her own — her cheeks glowed and 
her eyes filled with tears. The words which Marguerite translated 
into French, although wild, and with scarcely any rhyme, had yet 
no lack of real feeling, and with the plaintive monotony of the 
chant, possessed a singular charm. The young girl for whom it 
was sung had been drowned in waiting for her lover among the 
rocks; and the distant beating of the sea blending with Marguerite’s 
voice, gave a reality to the little romance which was simply told in 
the funeral dirge. 

When she finished, somewhat abruptly, she placed the guitar be- 
side her, and turned around to her father.. She was afraid to read 
in Philip’s face what he thought of her music; for she was as un- 
conscious of her extraordinary voice as of her own beauty, and felt 
rather ashamed at performing before him — “ he, who lived in Lon- 
don, and must be such a good judge!” 

” Will you sing again?” said Philip, in a low voice, after a min- 
ute or two’s pause. He was not in a mood to flatter, but the ex- 
pression of his face showed what he felt, and the invalid was de- 
lighted. 

“There! Marguerite, our guest wishes to hear you again, ” he 
said. “ Suppose you try something in your own language now — 
some of our old Scotch ballads?” 

With one look toward Philip, she obeyed. This time she chose a 
favorite song of her father’s — “The Land o’ the Leal,” and the 
deep pathos her voice gave to those touching words was indescriba- 
ble. Mr. St. John’s lips quivered as she sung, for Marguerite’s 
voice was like her mother’s, and that song always reminded him of 
the great sorrow of his life; and Philip felt he would rather listen 
to her ballads than to the finest opera in the world. She went on 
from one to another, until the last red rays of the sun had disap- 
peared from the oak carvings round the window, and the freshen- 
ing breezp warned Mr. St. John that it was already late to be near 
the open air. Marguerite sprung up hastily, and then, assisted by 
Philip, she wheeled her father’s chair toward the hearth, where 
Manon had already laid the logs ready for a cheerful blaze. 

“ But you have not read to me to-day,” said Mr. St. John, softly, 
to his daughter. ‘ ‘ I must hear you for half an hour, darling, if 
Mr. Earnscliffe will excuse us.” 


154 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


Marguerite went at once to the library in search of the sacred vol- 
ume, which always furnished their evening reading; and Philip 
thinking they would probably wish to be alone, said he would en- 
■joy the fresh sea-air, and stroll out into the garden with his cigar. 

The sun had now completely set. Only one faint streak of light 
lingered over the horizon, as loath to quit the blue sea upon which 
it rested; a few stars had already risen; and the wind, which dur- 
ing the day had blown freshly, was sunk into a whisper. ITothing 
but the gentle plash of the waves — now close beneath the terrace 
wall — broke the stillness; everything in external nature seemed 
calm and at peace. But Philip’s heart was not so! He walked on 
to the terrace, and there paced up and down — his arms folded and 
his lips compressed — and unconscious of the whole scene around 
him. 

Love, after a day’s acquaintance, is generally a somewhat doubt- 
ful feeling; but Philip’s was just a nature, quick, impulsive, irre- 
flective, in which it could be genuine, He already felt for Mar- 
guerite St. John more than he had ever felt for any woman before, 
and it cost him a bitter pang to reflect that, in his position as a mar- 
ried man, only one right course was open to him — to leave her at 
once. He said to himself that there was dishonor in remaining one 
more day under her father’s roof in his assumed character; for al- 
though he had not said so in words, he had certainly given Margue 
rite to understand that he was a single man, and her one warm 
blush, that morning among the ruins, showed, Philip well knew, 
that his own manner had already gone too far. 

“ Should he then disclose his true position at once to Mr. St, 
John, or leave Kersaint?” 

From the former course he shrunk morbidly. He had resolved 
on quitting England, to forget his former life as much as possible; 
he wished neither his fame as an author, nor his private history to 
follow him; and had chosen Brittany as the spot on earth where he 
would be least likely to be recognized. Merely to mention to Mr. 
St. John that he was married must naturally call forth other expla- 
nation, which would lead him back to all his recent trials. And, 
besides this, there lurked in his heart a feeling that he would rather 
quit Marguerite at once than stay near her in a different character 
to that under which she now knew him. 

“ Then he would leave Kersaint directly. No, that would be too 

in tliU more day he must stay, and then speak of going. And 
'’ntime he would avoid being alone with Marguerite, or 


PHII.IP EAEKSCLIFFE. 


155 


even thinking of her. Yes, he had resolved rightly, for a short 
time longer he would stay.” 

Philip had an excellent heart, and a sensitive regard to honor; 
but — and this was the mainspring of all his life’s errors — his will 
was weak, his resolutions wavering. He would torment himself for 
days upon some point of conscience, which to another man would 
appear trivial; yet when a broad patli of duty lay before him as was 
now the case, he did not enter upon it boldly and at once. The 
struggle was over in ten minutes; but on those ten minutes depend- 
ed the whole after-coloring of Marguerite’s life. 

The night deepened: millions of worlds began to glisten, like tears 
in the blue eyes of heaven, over the deep space above, and all the 
reproaching holiness of nature was around him. Philip turned 
hastily toward the Manoir, where already a bright fire was glimmer- 
ing through one of the lower windows, and he could trace the out- 
line of Mr. St. John’s drooping figure, as he and Marguerite read 
together. Poor father, ignorant that already another voice than his 
was sweet to his child’s heart! 

And once again Philip’s conscience smote him. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

The next day was Sunday, and they went to church together; 
the next, some other little excursion was planned, and so it went on 
each day, until Philip had been a week at Kersaint, without ever 
speaking of renewing his travels. He had faithfully guarded even 
his manner with Marguerite, during this time, and there had been 
no recurrence of any conversation like that among the ruins. But, 
although he spoke to her on indifferent subjects, and scarcely ever 
called her Marguerite, she felt that his eyes sought hers, that his 
voice softened when he spoke to her, and her whole heart was full 
of joy. 

She was innocent beyond what we in our ordinary life ever meet 
with— innocent beyond any young creature just leaving the school- 
room or convent, with cast down eyes and regulation modesty. 
True innocence was the state of Eve before she had tasted of the 
tree of knowledge and learned to assume, and such was Margue- 
rite’s. The blush on her cheek, when she met Philip’s gaze, was 
as natural as the red glow on a fiower which is kissed by the sun; 
and she could neither reason it away, nor make it come at her bid- 
ding. A new feeling was dawning upon her existence, and she felt 


156 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


within her an unwonted and delicious trouble, though she could 
not analyze the cause. She knew not that her childhood was dying, 
and the stronger, deeper, woman’s life awakening. She had never 
read a novel, had never spoken to any one of love; and had she 
heard that Philip was married, it would have been a far less shock 
to her than he imagined. What did she know of marriage, or how 
connect it with herself? f 

The love of a very young girl is, I believe, a subject no man can 
really comprehend. Grosser from their very oradles, men’s whole 
lives are such as sully, their ideas of love; and the purest feeling that 
was ever felt by one of them, is as clay compared to the pure silver 
of hers. 

With her father’s image another now rose before Marguerite’s at 
her evening prayers — another to be remembered in her petitions; 
and if the prayer for the stranger was warmer than that which she 
had breathed from her infancy, she knew not that it was less pure. 
She liked to be with Philip, to lay her hand timidly on his, to sing 
to him, to listen to the poetry he repeated to her, to see his face 
grow each day less gloomy when with her, and to hear him say he 
could not bear to leave them. Nor was her evident pleasure in his 
society concealed. Mr. St. John — though by no means clear-sight- 
ed, and so much in his study that he rarely saw them together, ex- 
cept at meal-times — had suspicions that Marguerite and Ihe visitor 
liked each other well, and the thought pleased him. He was greatly 
attracted toward Philip himself; his whole manner and tone of mind 
were precisely what he admired most; and, without really knowing 
anything about his history, he thought that his child’s happiness 
would be safe in his keeping. 

Only one thing more was wanting to complete his predisposition 
in favor of his visitor, and this shortly occurred. On the eighth 
morning after Philip’s arrival at Kersaint, they were all seated at 
the breakfast -table when the post came in. Not in a uniform and 
with a double knock, as may be supposed, but in the sudden appa- 
rition at the window of Bruno — an uncouthdooking and only half- 
witted personage, who professed to take care of the garden and 

poultry, and was sent to N to market, when Manon was too 

busy to go herself. In one sense he performed this office well; 
that is, he knew the value of sous and centimes as well as the sharp- 
est market-women on the “ place,” and bought provisions as cheap- 
ly as Manon could herself. But he was obtuse to the last degree, in 
understanding that he had no legal right or share in his own good 
bargains, and always appropriated so large a tithe to his capacious 


9 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 157 

mouth on his way home, that Manon now rarely trusted him when 
anything had to. be bought that it was possible for him to con- 
sume. Even here, once or twice, her judgment had failed her, and 
half a package of starch and a quantity of raw salt fish had sev- 
erally fallen victims to Bruno’s indiscrimnating palate,. 

On the morning in question, however, he had been dispatched at 

four o’clock, Manon ’s hour for rising, to call at N about a new 

kitchen table that had been ordered, and which Manon rightly con- 
jectured would be safe from his appetite, even were he required to 
bring it home on his shoulders. Having performed his commission 
satisfactorily, z.e., by calling at the carpenter’s, and ascertaining 
that the wood was not yet sawn, which should one day form the 
stage for Manon ’s art, Bruno, his great hat slouched over his fore- 
head, and his sheepskin dangling round his ungainly figure, was 
shambling along through the streets homeward, his stolid eyes fixed 
intently before him, yet in reality, observing every one he met, 
when, as he passed the post-office, he heard his own name shouted. 
Stopping with a jerk, he gazed on all sides but that from whence 
the sound proceeded, with his mouth wide open, and a look of the 
most hopeless imbecility upon his face. 

‘ ‘ Bruno— dolt — idiot ! ’ ’ reiterated the voice. 

Bruno shook his head slowly, as though the person spoken to 
could not possibly be himself, and then pursued his road. 

“ Bruno!” called the voice. He did not turn. 

“ Monsieur Bruno— Monsieur Bruno!” now sounded faintly. A. 
grin distorted Bruno’s wide mouth, and chuckling to himself at his 
new title of dignity, he turned and beheld the post-mistress, her 
head outstretched through the small window of the bureau, which 
also formed her sitting-room, and holding something in her hand. 

“ A newspaper for Monsieur St. John,” she exclaimed as he ap- 
proached. “ Just take it with you, good Bruno.” 

Good Bruno was aware that Kersaint was distant more than one 

league from N , and that, by taking the paper, he saved the 

post-mistress or her son from walking that distance, and he made 
no sign of receiving it. 

‘ ‘ Bruno is no postman, ’ ’ he muttered in his most stupid manner. 
“ Poor Bruno!” pointing to his forehead. 

” But that does not signify,” urged the lady. “ Come, take it at 
once; your master will wish to see it.” 

” And if Bruno won’t take it?” 

“ I must send it, you — ” fool, she would have added, but refrained 
until her point was gained. 




158 PHIilP EARNSCLIFFB. 

“ And who pays you?” 

“Pays me? why, government; only you don’t know what that 
means, and little enough, too!” 

“ And who pays Bruno?” 

“ Oh! that is it, is it?” returned the postmistress. “ You think 
you must be paid like anybody else;” and with a great show of 
generosity, she produced a five-centimes piece. “ There, take this, 
and be off. ’ ’ 

But Bruno shook his head; and not until he had stood out for 
half an hour, and finally obtained ten centimes, would he receive the 
paper. Then he started at a quicker pace than usual, his face 
beaming with the double delight of having to tell Manon that her 
table was not yet begun, and that he had realized ten centimes' for 
himself. After this fashion the post usually came in at Kersaint. 

The newspaper was sent by “the cousin,” Mr. St. John’s only 
remaining correspondent in England, who wrote to him about once 
a year, and sent a paper every six months. It was merely intended 
as a sign that he was living and well; and was generally a month 
old when it reached Kersaint. Marguerite, however, always hailed 
its arrival as a kind of event, and would read aloud the advertise- 
ments of new books to her father, and wish she had got them all. 

“ May I open it, father?” she asked, when she had finished her 
colloquy with Bruno through the open window, and he had related 
with great glee, in his Breton patois, how he had outwitted the post- 
mistress. 

“ Certainly, child.” and he went on talking to Philip. 

Marguerite knew where to find the literary advertisements, and 
turning to that part, began reading them over to herself. Sudden- 
ly the color rushed into her face, and she exclaimed aloud: 

“Mr. Earnscliffe!” 

“ What have you found. Marguerite?” said her father. 

She rose, without replying, and pointed to the part which had 
called forth her astonishment. It was the announcement of “A 
new edition of Mr. Philip Earnscliffe’s last successful work.” Mr. 
St. John looked a little surprised, and read the notice over twice 
without speaking, then he turned to Philip — 

‘ ‘ My daughter has found out a literary namesake of yours, Mr. 
Earnscliffe; the name is so uncommon as to make this coincidence 
somewhat remarkable, ’ ’ and he handed him the paper. 

Philip colored as his eye glanced over it. This was certainly the 
part of his history he cared least about revealing; still, he would 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


159 


have been better pleased had the discovery^ not taken place. Now 
he could conceal it no longer. 

I must acknowledge,” he said, ‘‘that Philip Earnscliffe, the 
author, is no other than myself. ’ ’ 

” Oh, father!” burst from Marguerite, “he is a great author, 
after all. ’ ' 

” And a modest one,” added Mr. St. John. ” Few men of your 
age, Mr. Earnscliffe, like their fame to pass incognito, even among 
such simple people as ourselves. ” 

“ Well, ” replied Philip, ” the fact is, I have been so often wearied 
to death, when listening to other writers talking about their own 
works, that I resolved to adopt the other extreme, and never speak 
of mine at all.” 

“ And you have kept well to your resolution. Still, though you 
never told me you were an author, I have more than once suspected 
that your talents had not lain idle all your life, and the other day 
was nearly questioning you on the subject. You seemed so thor- 
oughly aujait of all literary matters and people, that I could not 
but think you were one of the fraternity yourself. ’ ’ 

During the time her father spoke. Marguerite read and re-read 
the advertisement, and then looked long at Philip, trying to con- 
nect her kind, simple companion with the successful Mr. Earnscliffe. 
She felt rather awed at seeing a living author; and thought with 
shame how he had listened to all Tier childish conversation, and of 
the immeasurable distance there must henceforth be between them; 
she so ignorant and he in all the dignity of acknowledged author- 
ship. 

“ What are the books about, father?” she whispered, at length, 
not daring to address Philip. 

“ Why do you not ask Mr. Earnscliffe?” he replied, aloud. 

She turned away her face. 

” Marguerite is afraid of you in your newly discovered character, 
I believe. ’ ’ 

“ I hope not,” replied Philip, ” or I shall indeed regret that my 
secret is known.” 

Marguerite glanced at his face, and felt that there was no fresh 
gulf between them; and all her confidence returned. 

” What are they about, then?” she cried, returning to her chair, 
which she drew quite close to his side. ” Are they poetry or stories? 
Have you written many? And please tell me their names.” 

And Philip, when he once began to reply, was cross-questioned 
witli such earnestness for a good half-hour, that Mr. St. John, al- 


160 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


though nearly as much interested as Marguerite, at length told her 
that she would tire Mr. Earnscliffe. 

Well,’’ she pleaded, “ only one thing more, then; may we see 
any of your books?” 

Philip replied that he had not a copy with him, and her counte 
nance fell. 

“ But if you would really like to possess some of them, I will 
write a line to my publisher, and ask him to send them in a packet 
to Kersaint. They will remind you of me when they arrive, and I 
am gone.” 

“ Gone I” echoed Mr. St. John and Marguerite together, in a tone 
that spoke the sincerity of their surprise. 

Oh! do not go,” the latter softly added. Father, do not let 
Mr. Earnscliffe go!” 

‘‘I thought you were to remain in Brittany half the summer, ” 
urged Mr. St. John. 

‘‘ But not trespassing on your hospitality,” Philip replied. 

“ My dear sir, you are conferring a simple favor upon an invalid 
like myself in remaining here; and Marguerite, for the first time in 
her life, has the pleasure of being with a youthful companion, and 
listening to another voice than mine. We have so little to attract 
you that I can not press you to remain; but it will pain me to bid 
you farewell.” 

His manner was even kinder than his words. Philip felt that the 
invalid really wished him to stay with him, and it coincided but too 
well with his own desire. Conscience, however, once more urged 
him to leave Marguerite, and he faintly pleaded something about 
his wish to visit the remoter parts of Brittany. 

“Of course, you should do so,” returned Mr. St. John; “but 
you could not choose a more central spot for this object than Ker- 
saint. Have your luggage sent here from Quimper, ” (where Philip 
had left it), “ and make this head- quarters. You can take excur- 
sions without end, and return every few days to rest, and give us 
the pleasure of your society . ” 

Marguerite did not speak, but she watched his face. He paused 
irresolutely, a sense of duty still warring with inclination; then he 
said, hesitatingly: 

“ I really do not like, stranger as I am, to accept your kind invi- 
tation — ” 

“If that is all,” interrupted Mr. St. John, “ your objection is at 
an end. I do not consider you a stranger already, and besides, all 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


161 


the world may claim to know a celebrated writer. I look upon you 
as our promised visitor for many weeks to come.” 

And Philip, overcome by Mr. St. John’s warmth, and his own 
wishes, accepted. The note was written that morning, and dis- 
patched to his publisher; and Marguerite counted the days that must 
elapse before the books could by any possibility arrive. Philip said 
his last work was for her father, but the earlier ones, the poems and 
tales, were for her. And when he added, “ Will you accept them 
as your own from me?” she could scarcely answer for delight. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

They generally walked together by the sea for an hour or two at 
sunset; and on the evening of this day Marguerite had more than 
usual to say. She was never weary of asking Philip about his 
writings, trying to make him repeat aloud any passages he could 
remember, and only discontinued when she at length saw he really 
did not relish the subject. But she wondered extremely how he 
could prefer their usual strain of conversation, to speaking of what 
engrossed all her thoughts. “It is because he thinks me so child- 
ish, and that I am not able to understand him, ’ ’ she said to herself. 
After wandering for some time, they rested upon a high rock, 
which stood somewhat apart from its fellows, and watched the tide 
come in. Although the weather was still fair, there was a good 
deal of wind, and the waves were high, each bearing a wreath of 
foam, that the sun converted into flame, and which formed a singu- 
lar contrast to the cool, pearly green of the water beneath. 

“ I like to feel the spray upon m}^ face,” said Marguerite, “ How 
can people be happy away from the sea?” 

“ Do you not like the country better?” 

“ You mean the fields and forests? Well, I like them, too, and 
I could not bear to leave them; but I love the sea! Trees and 
flowers are merely beautiful, but the sea is living, and it has been 
my companion all my life. It has a thousand voices and expressions 
that I can understand; it can smile like a human face in the sun- 
shine, or moan and wail like no other voice, when it casts up the 
drowned fisherman on the shore; it can break and surge over the 
huge rocks, and even uproot them from their resting-place, as it did 
yonder Kernot cliff last winter. Yes, the sea is full of life and 
power, and I love it! Think how dull it •would be here in winter 
without the roaring of the waves!” 


162 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 


Philip smiled. ‘‘Do you consider that a cheerful sound?” he 
asked. 

“Not cheerful, it is grand; and when we have clear frosty 
weather for a few weeks, and the waves are still, it seems quite 
lonely.” She sang a note or two from an old ballad, then was 
silent. After some miijutes Philip said abruptly — 

“ Sing to me. Marguerite! I feel ill at ease this evening, and I 
should like to hear your voice in the open air, with only the fall of 
the waves for an accompaniment; sing something low and melan- 
choly.” 

After pausing to select what would please him, she began one of 
her plaintive, old Scotch songs. Her voice sounded unusually 
sweet, and Philip leaned back against the rock, his hat pulled for- 
ward to shade his eyes from the slanting sun, gazing at her profile, 
and listening to her rich tones with a perilous keenness of delight. 
His poet’s temperament made him subject to a thousand tempta- 
tions from which another man would have been free; and a soft 
half-hour at sunset could at any time turn into nothing his strongest 
resolutions. 

“ That was delightful, Marguerite!” he whispered, when she had 
finished. 

“Was it?” she replied. “Does it really give you pleasure to 
hear me? I suppose my voice must be good, then.” 

“ In all London I never heard a voice like yours, off the stage. If 
you took lessons for two years, you would be a first-rate singer. 
Would you not like to be courted and sought after in society for 
your extraordinary talent and beauty?” He wished to see if any 
desire for admiration — that strongest feeling with most women — lay 
dormant in the girl’s heart. 

“ No,” she returned, after thinking a little. “ I am quite sure 
it would give me no happiness. I should not care for all the peo- 
ple at those great parties you tell me of, and I should not value 
their praises; how can it signify what strangers think of you? The 
praise of one or two would be sufficient for me. I should like to be 
beautiful and loved, I confess; but I would rather not be celebra- 
ted.” 

“You are right!” said Philip. “ Fame is wearisome in the pur- 
suit, unsatisfactory in possession.” 

“ Oh, you should not say so!” Marguerite interrupted. “ I only 
meant that, for myself, I could not value it. If I were a man I 
should be ambitious; and I should like my brother, if I had one, to 
be very celebrated. I could glory in /m success.” 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


163 


It was a dangerous remark. Philip’s eyes softened as they rested 
upon Marguerite’s glowing face; and he remembered Lady Clara 
and her sympathy with him. 

“ What might I have been,” he thought, “ if I had had this girl 
for my wife? What might I still be, if I were now free to choose? 
Could you not extend this feeling to any but a brother?” he went 
on, aloud. “If at any future time, for instance, you hear that I am 
a very celebrated writer, will it give you no pleasure?” 

She drew nearer to him, and replied, looking up kindly in his 
face. “ It would give me more pleasure than anything in the 
world. Except my father, you are my only friend, and I should 
like to hear of you as though you were really my brother. But 
that will never be,” she added, mournfully. “ When you leave 
Kersaint, I feel it will be forever, and I shall not even hear your 
name again.” 

“You are wrong, Marguerite, I shall return here next summer, 
if I live.” 

“ Will you promise that? It will give me something to hope for 
during the winter. ’ ’ 

“ If you are still here, I promise it,” Philip replied; but he felt 
too truly that by another summer Marguerite might be an orphan. 

“ I hope I shall be improved,” she resumed, timidly: “ my father 
is going to teach me so much next winter, and I shall have a greater 
interest in learning now. How do you think he has looked the last 
day or two?” 

“I think he varies much,” answered Philip, evasively. A 
week’s observation had convinced him that Mr. St. John was wast- 
ing away under the slow, sure influence of consumption, and that 
his occasional good spirits and heightened color were merely symp- 
toms of his treacherous disease. 

“ But on the whole he is better?” 

Her wistful tones, as though she half feared his answer, smote 
him. 

“ I trust your father may be long spared,” he replied. “ But I 
think his state requires the greatest care.” 

“He is so melancholy,” said Marguerite, “ and when we are 
alone I find it difficult to cheer him. He thinks more than ever of 
my mother now. ” 

“ She must have died very young,’' Philip remarked. 

“ Yes; I believe before she was twenty; but Manon could tell 
better about her than I can. She died directly after I was born, 
and they say she never saw me. But I wish I had not been told 


164 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


that; I can not hear to think that I was never— no, not for a minute 
— in my mother’s arms; it makes me unlike all other children I” 

Philip took the poor little hand as it wiped away her tears, and 
pressed it. ‘‘ Do you like to speak of her or not?” he said gently. 

“Yes, I like it, hut I never do so to my father; it makes him look 
so wretched; and Manon will not say much of her either. But on 
my birthday she always will — it is my treat, the greatest of all the 
year — and then we sit together in my own room, and Manon tells 
me of my beautiful young mother, and shows me some of her 
things. She died of some complaint of the heart; and, do you 
know, I have often thought I shall die of it also? They tell me I 
am like her in everything; and at times I have a sudden, painful 
feeling — here— which makes me feel there must he something 
wrong. Do you think it is likely?” She looked at him very ear- 
nestly. 

Philip drew her to his side, and pressed his lips upon her long, 
shining hair. The action .was involuntary, and the feeling which 
prompted him innocent. At that moment Marguerite was a perfect 
child, and he would have done the same had she been six, and not 
sixteen; hut it was a fatal precedent. 

“You should not give way to these thoughts,” he replied; “ they 
might really injure you, and are without foundation. Both of my 
own parents died young of decline, yet you see I am strong and 
well; and you, Marguerite, have the very bloom of health upon 
your cheek. You must never indulge these fancies again.” 

‘ ‘ No, ’ ’ she answered, ‘ ‘ I will not, after what you say. But I 
never mentioned it before to any one, though I have often'thought 
of it. I should be sorry to die, now that my father seems getting 
better, and that you have come to us.” 

She had not shrunk from his side, and there was no blush upon 
her cheek now. Speaking of her dead mother, and of her own se- 
cretly cherished forebodings of an early death, the feeling of timid- 
ity which she occasionally experienced toward Philip was forgotten, 
and he might in realitj^ have been her brother — at that moment. 
And so they remained, until the sun was fairly set, and the features 
of each grew less distinct in the twilight, and they drew closer to- 
gether as the fresh night- wind rose from the sea. Then Philip 
could hear the quick beatings of her heart, and her tremulous 
breath amidst his hair, and his own pulse grew unsteady. The de- 
licious dawn of first love was upon them both. That time when to 
breathe the same air — to be silently at each other’s side, is in itself 
happiness all-sufficing — that time which is the last remnant of Eden 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 165 

still left to us — the only passionate delight that bears no trace of the 
serpent. 

At length Marguerite said it was time for her evening reading 
with her father, and she must go. 

“Stay,” said Earn scliffe, still holding her hand, “ another mo- 
ment. Marguerite, I have something to say to you.” 

“ What words were those which hung upon her lips? Fresh 
words of cruel tenderness, or a tardy avowal of his marriage? For 
that time, at least. Marguerite did not hear them. She had turned 
as he spoke toward the distant Manoir, and saw her father standing 
at one of the lower windows. She rose to her feet. 

“ Kot now, he is waiting forme. Tell me to-morrow morning, 
before you set out. I shall be up very early, and we will come out 
on the terrace together; but I can not keep him waiting now.” And 
she ran quickly toward the house. 

Philip followed her slowly and was soon pacing up and down, 
with his cigar, on the terrace — his usual evening walk. He had al- 
ready planned to start on the morrow for an excursion of several 
days, and he felt now, more than ever, that it was time for some 
change — that every hour he remained was perilous. It was in vain 
that he argued with himself how pure were his feelings toward Mar- 
guerite, and that, were he free, he would gladly make her his wife, 
and give up all the excitement of his past life for quitjt domestic 
happiness. He was not free. Each pressure of her hand, each; 
whispered word to her were so many derelictions, faint, but pro- 
gressive, from the path of honor; and Marguerite’s ignorance of 
wrong, and her father’s perfect trust in him, made his position the 
graver. 

“ If I had Neville’s strong will,” thought Philip, “ with my own 
conscientious scruples, I should have left them at once. He might 
see no harm in the passing deception, and treat it all as the amuse- 
ment of a few summer weeks; but at least he would act honestly up 
to his conviction, whilst 1—” his reverie was here interrupted by a 
footstep advancing from the garden, and turning round, he distin- 
guished Manon’s square, solid figure as it approached him in the 
dusky light. 

Manon held the opinion common amongst French persons of her 
class, that to be alone is the summit of human misery, and as the 
supper did not then require her attention, she had purposely joined 
Philip for a little conversation. She had an immense liking for the 
handsome young Englishman, but he was so engrossed all day with 
Marguerite, that she had rarely a chance of speaking to him alone. 


166 


PHILIP EARIs'SCLIFFE. 


It is a dull evening, monsieur; I am sorry to see you by your- 
self.”. 

And you have kindly come to bear me company, Manon; I 
have not seen you all day. ’ ' 

No, you have been on the beach, or away wdth mademoiselle, as 
usual. Poor child! it does my heart good to see her with a com- 
panion, after her life of solitude.” 

” She was talking to me, for the first time to-day, of her mother, ” 
said Philip. 

“ Was she so, monsieur? Yes, it is her favorite subject, but I do 
not allow her to dwell much upon it; it is not well for the young 
to brood over death and sorrow. Her mother! she grows more like 
her every day.” Manon raised her brown hand to her eyes. 

“ Was she as beautiful as her daughter is now?” Philip asked> 

“Yes,” returned Manon, “ and as sweet and loving. Ah, mon- 
sieur! hers was a sad young life — so sad, you would not care to hear 
it told.” 

“On the contrary, I should feel the greatest interest in it. In 
anything concerning Mr. St. John,” he added. 

“ Well, monsieur, if it will pass away the time for you, I will tell 
it. I am sure I may confide anything to you with safety; but you 
will see, without my asking you, that it is not a subject for you to 
mention again to my master. ’ ' 

She seated herself on a low bank at one end of the terrace, in the 
attitude consecrated from time immemorial to the teller of a story 
— her head erect, and her hands crossed — while Philip leaned 
against the balustrade at her side, and prepared to listen. 

The sky w^as now overcast, and the occasional cry of the owl, and 
the mournful beatings of the sea, formed a fit prelude for the his- 
tory of Marguerite’s mother. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“ I WAS just sixteen,” said Manon, “ when I first entered into the 
service of Monsieur le Comte de Josselin. He was one of the oldest 
seigneurs in Brittany, though no longer rich; indeed, the vast pos- 
sessions of his family had dwindled down, they said, to scarcely 
more than the old chateau and estate of Beaumanoir, near Quim- 
per, where he lived wdth Madame la Comtesse and their only child, 
Mademoiselle Lilia. 

“ I was her foster-sister; and next to her own parents, she loved 


PHILIP EARI^SCLIFFE. 


167 


none so well as me. When we were both children, she saved all 
her treasures and dainties to share them with me, and she would 
leave all her companions to come and play with me and our goat 
upon the moor. I can see her now, in her little while dress, pluck- 
ing the marguerites de pre, and the coquelicots, to hang them round 
Mimi’s neck! 

“ Well, when I was sixteen, and mademoiselle a few months 
younger, the first grief of my own life came — my mother died. My 
father, who was old and infirm, was henceforth to live with my 
married sister; and I was, in a manner, cast upon the world. But 
Mademoiselle Lilia entreated her parents with such earnestness that 
I might be taken into the chateau, that they at length consented, 
and I became her own maid —or rather her companion, for she al- 
ways treated me as a sister — and, in the happiness of being with her, 
my grief for my mother’s death gradually diminished, and we were 
again like children together. 

“ She was at that time the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. 
Her hair was more golden than Marguerite’s — her eyes of a 
softer blue; and her whole face and figure had something re- 
minding me of the picture of Our Lady in the cathedral, as it 
looks in the moonlight. But, though she was fragile and deli- 
cate, mademoiselle had high spirits; and it would have done your 
heart good to hear her merry laugh ringing through the gloomy 
rooms of the old chateau. Her parents doted on her— I have never 
denied them that — but they were both proud and fond of money — 
Madame la Comtesse especially; and, when they looked at their 
daughter’s sweet face, I believe, God help them! they thought 
more of the grand marriage it would enable her to make than of 
anything else. 

“ When my foster-sister was just seventeen, her cousin, the Mar- 
quis de St. Leon, came to stay with us. He was about six-and- 
twenty, slight, fair, with dark eyes, and a low voice — a voice not un- 
like yours, monsieur — and I saw, from the first day, he would love 
her. Soon his eyes never left mademoiselle; and, as they all walked 
up and down under the charmille, in the summer evenings, I could 
see him continually at her side, and I knew how it would be. 

‘‘ Shall I confess to you that a feeling of jealousy crossed me at 
the idea? I knew that it was wicked, that of course she must marry 
some day, and I become nothing to her; but still I felt it. She was 
all I had in the world, and I could not bear that she could take any 
of her love from me. 

“ Gradually I saw a change come over her; she no longer cared 


168 


PHILIP EABHSCLIFFE. 


for our childish games; she was silent and thoughtful, and would 
blush whenever her cousin’s name was mentioned. At length, one 
day she ran hurriedly into my little room where I sat working, her 
face all flushed and tearful, but so happy, and told me that the 
marquis had proposed for her, and had been accepted. Even in 
her new joy she did not forget me; but said I was her dear sister 
still, and that I should continue to live with her after she married; 
and I was ashamed that I had ever felt jealous of her cousin, 

“ He was believed to be rich; for a good patrimony was said to 
have descended to him a few months before, on his father’s death, 
and my master and his lady appeared well satisfled with the engage- 
ment. Our bishojD — Monseigneur, at Quimper— wrote off to the 
Pope of Rome for a dispensation (because they were first cousins): 
they were soon formally betrothed to each other, and then the mar- 
quis returned to Paris to arrange his affairs, while at the chateau 
preparations for the wedding were begun at once. 

“ It would weary you to tell the excitement and bustle we were 
all in. Mademoiselle Lilia was the gayest of us all, and her cheeks 
bloomed brighter than they had ever done before. It was not a 
marriage like most others, do you see, merely made up between 
parents, without consulting the children’s hearts; she loved her 
cousin truly, and looked forward to a life of quiet happiness with 
him when she should become his wife. 

“ The marquis had been gone about three weeks, and we now ex- 
pected him back for good in a few days, when the wedding was to 
take place. Mademoiselle got a little paler as the time drew on, 
and appeared more thoughtful again. I believe the near approach 
of a great happiness makes one tremble, or perhaps a secret fore- 
boding of coming evil might have hung over her; but, however this 
was, all the preparations went on as usual, until one morning, when 
two letters arrived from Paris for my master, and put an end to all 
our joys and hopes. 

He was walking on the terrace with Madame la Comtesse when 
they were given to him; and mademoiselle and I were watching 
them from the window of her own sitting-room, where we generally 
spent the forenoon together. The reading of these letters seemed to 
produce an extraordinary effect on the comte and his wife, yet it 
did not exactly appear that they had received bad tidings: on the 
contrary, after consulting long together, there was a triumphant 
look upon the face of my lady when they returned toward the house 
which made me shudder without any real reason, and my foster- 
sister threw her trembling arms round my neck, and said she knew 


PHILIP EARKSCLIPFE. 


169 


her mother’s smile boded no good to Henri. She never personally 
liked him, and I believe, although she accepted his suit, she thought 
her daughter ought to have married a prince at least. 

“ In about an hour’s time, a knock came at the door, and o. femme 
de chambre entered, and told mademoiselle that Monsieur le Comte 
wished to speak to her in the library. Her hand, which was fast 
• clasped in mine, turned as cold as ice at this message; however, she 
immediately rose to obey, and telling me to remain there until her 
return, she walked slowly from the room. 

‘‘ I waited long— so long, it seemed to me like hours — before she 
came back, tormenting myself with thinking of all that could have 
happened; but when at length the door opened, and she tottered in, 
I felt sure none of my fears had been bad enough. Monsieur, did 
you ever see a young face gain the expression of years of misery in 
one day? if so, you can imagine how Mademoiselle Lilia looked. 
She was not pale, she was ashy; and there was a look — a fixed, hard 
look — upon her soft features, which made her seem positively old. 
It was the first time I ever saw anything of her mother in her facet 

“ ‘ Oh, mademoiselle! — oh, my darling!’ I cried; ‘what is the 
matter? Is Monsieur Henri dead?’ 

“ She seated herself without speaking, and remained so for sev- 
eral minutes; then she turned and said, in a harsh and altered voice 
— ‘ Manon, never mention his name to me again. Dead, no! a 
thousand times worse; would God he were dead!’ She moved 
about that day and the next like a thing of stone; on the third, she 
told me to come with her and walk. I remember when it was, a 
mild autumn day, and we wandered through the woods until we 
reached a small kind of temple that stood by the lake, at some dis- 
tance from the chateau. She used to come here with her cousin 
when they were engaged; but after he left, we had no leisure for 
walking, and this was the first time she had visited it since. ‘ Let 
us rest,’ she said; ‘ I am weary.’ 

“ She looked very pale, and I opened the door of the temple for 
her to go in. There, upon the rustic table, lay a bunch of withered 
fiowers— they had gathered them in their last walk together among 
the woods, and afterward forgotten them in their happiness — and 
close beside them was one of Monsieur Henri’s gloves. For a mo- 
ment she stoo^ still, her lips drawn tightly together, and her hands 
clinched; then, with a stifled cry, she seized the glove, pressed it to 
her lips, her bosom, uttered a thousand tender words over it, and 
burst into a flood of tears. They were the first she had shed; and I 
believe those tears saved her reason. When slowly she recovered. 


170 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


the unnatural firmness had left her face, and of herself she began 
speaking of her cousin. Still holding his glove in her trembling 
hands, she told me her father had discovered accidentally that he 
was unworthy of ber; that he was leading the most wild and dissi- 
pated life, and at the very time of their engagement had made his 
profiigacy and intended marriage with her, alike a boast and a jest 
among his companions. ‘ And I wrote to him,’ she went on — ‘ I 
wrote him a letter at once; my mother dictated it, I could not think 
for myself ; but I know that I gave him back his false love, and told 
him from that moment he was free, and that I thanked God I was 
so too. I could not write it now,’ she added, softly; ‘ for though I 
would not be his wife, I forgive him everything; and, Manon, Ma- 
non, I love him still!’ She carried back the withered fiowers and 
the glove. Ah, monsieur! she never parted with them again, as 
you will see. 

“ Winter set in early and severe; and mademoiselle grew so pale 
and thin, that I feared greatly for her health. Her parents, too, at 
last took alarm. I think her mother must have felt some pangs of 
self-reproach when she looked at her child’s face, and knew it was 
^her own work; she was, however, entirely taken up with a new 
scheme, and perhaps that prevented her from seeing Mademoiselle 
Lilia as others did. 

‘ ‘ II appeared that one of the letters on that fatal morning was a 
proposal of marriage from a gentleman of great riches, but about 
three times her age, who had seen mademoiselle at a country fete 
some months before; and either was, or pretended to be, ignorant of 
her engagement to her cousin. They had w^ritten to him without 
consulting their daughter, as she afterward told me, begged him to 
wait for a few months, on account of her extreme youth. Madame 
la Comtesse judged rightly, that it would be well to let her first sor- 
row pass away before speaking to her again of marriage. When at 
length, however, she thought the time come, and did ask her con- 
sent to marry this new suitor, she was surprised at mademoiselle’s 
decided rejection of him. ‘ I shall never marry Henri, ’ she said, 
‘ but I will have no other— at least, not yet. Give me one year, 
mother, before you speak to me of those things again. ’ 

“ Madame la Comtesse was proud and grasping for wealth; but 
still she was a mother, and she could not withstand her poor child’s 
mournful face, so they unwillingly wrote and told this gentleman 
that their daughter's health was too delicate for her to think of 
marrying at present; and shortly afterward we all went to Paris for 
the winter. They had several grand physicians for my foster-sister, 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


171 


and they all said she had as yet no positive disease; hut that she had 
a disposition to something of the heart. I forget what they called 
it, it was a long word; hut I knew what the complaint was better 
than they, and could have given it a shorter name — her heart was 
breaking. 

“ She went to parties and halls — ‘ she must be amused,’ they said, 

‘ and forget the past;’ hut, when she came home each night, weary 
and pale, and would weep upon my breast, in all her silks and 
flowers, I thought she would have been better sleeping quietly in 
her grave. She never met her cousin; for, immediately he received 
her letter, we were told he had gone right away to India, or Amer- 
ica — I don't rightly know which— so, at least, she was spared the 
pain of seeing him again. 

Well — 1 must not keep you in the cold too long — when we had 
been in Paris about four months, mademoiselle met an Englishman 
in society, who pleased her better than all the gay young men she 
had known as yet; and that was my master — Mr. St. John. He was 
pale and quiet even then, but had, I used to think, a look of her 
cousin, which may have struck her too. At all events, she liked 
him; and when after a few weeks he proposed to her, she said to 
her mother, ‘ Let me marry Mr. St. John?’ 

I was in the room at the time — for they kept nothing from me 
— and she never blushed or cast down her eyes, as she had done for 
the marquis; she was quite earnest, but cold and quiet. I believe 
she chiefly thought of leaving Paris and all these gay parties; and 
she did not remember, poor child! that she had no love to give with 
her hand. 

“ It was a dreadful blow to her parents, after all their schemes. 
The doctors said, unless they allowed her to marry as she liked, and 
at once, she would die; and they had no choice but to consent. Mr. 
St. John, however, was not a rich man, and did nothing but read 
and write books; so, after all, mademoiselle made what is called a 
very poor marriage, although God knows she gained a true and 
faithful heart in my master. 

‘ ‘ After the wedding, her flrst words to her husband were, ‘ Let 
me go back to the country. ’ And they took a pretty place not far 
from Paris, where they passed the first year of their marriage. I 
remained with them; you may be sure; and when at last a fair little 
daughter was placed in my darling* s arms, I thought her old smile 
had come back for good, and that she would grow really well and 
happy. My master loved her beyond everything on ^arth; he 
thought of nothing but her — and she was so sweet and gentle that it 


172 


PHILIP EARNSCLIPFE. 


was only natural he should believe she loved him in return, for he 
had never heard anything about her former engagement with the 
marquis. 

“ When the baby was a few months old, a distant relation of her 
mother’s died, and left this property of Kersaint to my young mis- 
tress. I believe it was very acceptable to them; for her father’s es- 
tate, as he had no son, would go to an uncle on his death; and he 
had nothing but that to leave. And, besides this, Mr. St. John, 
who was too book learned to understand money, had lent nearly all 
his to a relation to be put in business, and he had just failed at the 
time of the child’s birth. So they decided for the present to come 
and live quietly at Kersaint. 

“ They had many friends in Paris; and though neither of them 
cared about society, they were persuaded to go there for a few weeks 
before starting for Bretagne. 

“ That was a fatal delusion, monsieur. 

“ They were invited out a great deal; and one evening they had 
gone to a at some foreign embassador’s, and 1, as usual, 

was sitting up to undress my mistress on her return, when I heard 
the carriage enter the port-cocMre of the hotel an hour or two earlier 
than I had expected. I ran out with a light into the great corridor 
to meet them, and after waiting some minutes I saw Mr. St. John 
supporting his wife with difficulty up the stairs. She was just as 
white as the day when she broke with her cousin, and had some- 
thing the same expression on her face. 

‘ Eh, man Bieu !' 1 cried, ‘ what has happened?’ 

“ ‘ Your mistress has been taken suddenly ill,’ replied my master, 
quite calm, though ha too was very pale. ‘ Get her to bed, good 
Manon, and w^atch with her through the night; it is best for her to 
be kept perfectly quiet. ’ 

‘ ‘ He left us at the door of the sleeping-room, and I did watch 
with her through that dreadful night. At first she was faint and 
unconscious; but that soon passed, and the worst was then to come. 
All she said I could not tell you; but I gathered from her delirious 
talk that in the middle of the ball she had suddenly seen her cousin, 
whom she believed far aw^ay in America. He had spoken to her 
and asked her to dance; instead of that, however, they had gone 
into another room alone, and there for the first time she heard the 
truth. 

The letter which her father had received, on the same morning 
with the fresh proposal for her hand, was from Monsieur Henri, 
saying, that on looking into his affaim, they were not so straight as 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


173 


he believed : his father in fact had been extravagant, and the money 
did not all come clear to the marquis. But in the letter he had 
asked for time, and said he would start gladly for foreign parts, 
and tiy to win more money for himself, if his cousin would only 
wait for him. 

'' ‘ And they never told me this,’ she cried. ‘ They deceived me, 
cruel father! cruel mother! they- deceived me, and I wrote him that 
letter! I thanked God that I was free! "when I would have died for 
him, when I loved him — when I love him still. ’ And she took his 
glove from the place where it always lay with the withered flowers, 
and wept over it till I thought she would die from weeping. I 
never saw such grief before, or since, and I think it was the worse 
coming from one so gentle as my mistress. 

“ Toward morning I bethought me of something that might soothe 
her; and as I had now persuaded her to lie down in her bed, I crept 
from the room to the baby’s nursery, and wrapping it in a shawl, I 
brought it back sleeping, and placed it in her arms. For one mo- 
ment, monsieur, she shrunk back from her child. It was only a 
moment, however. The next she covered it with kisses and hugged 
it to her heart. It woke; and seeing its mother, gave a soft cooing 
cry, and held out its hand to her breast; the little touch I suppose 
recalled everything to her, that she was another man’s wife and a 
mother, for she attempted to check her sobs, and I could see that 
she was praying over the child. 

“ She was long dangerously ill; but as soon as she could be 
moved, we came down to Kersaint. When I think of my master 
during that time, I believe I pity him most of all. I was afterward 
told that at the ball when my mistress fainted, he overheard some 
of the guests saying to each other, ‘ Ah! Madame St. John has met 
her old lover — poor husband!’ And this was the first he ever knew 
of her former engagement. At all events he never looked the same 
after that night. 

“ The sea air and change seemed to do her good; and she tried so 
hard not to repine, and to be thankful to live, that her husband 
could not but forgive her — indeed, he was soon more devoted to her 
than ever. He is unlike all other men; and when from herself he 
heard the whole stoiy, and how she had been deceived, he forgot 
his own disappointment, and only tried to make up to her with his 
love for what she had lost. 

“ A year passed by; and, though she was not worse, I could see 
that she did not really gain strength. At times her color was high, 
and she would rally, and sing to him, and play with the child; but 


174 


PHILIP EAIiKSCLIFFE. 


suddenly, her hand would he pressed to her heart, and the faint 
shade round her lips told me she was sutfering inward pain. At 
the end of that year the child died — died of croup — in the night, 
when we all thought she had fallen asleep in perfect health; and, 
from that hour, I knew we should lose my mistress. She showed 
no passionate grief — she scarcely wept for the child; but, when 
she hung over the little body in its coffin, she smiled; and I could 
see she was only parting with it for a short time. It was the last 
thing that kept her to life. 

And now she faded rapidly: every day I saw a change; but 
what made it worse was, that she expected soon again to be a 
mother. She liked to be carried out by my master to the terrace, 
and would sit there for hours^ watching the sea, with a kind of dim 
look upon her face, but seldom speaking. When I tried to rouse 
her, for the sake of the unborn babe, she would only say, ‘ Pray 
God, Manon, that it be not a girl! I do not wish to bring another 
sorrowful life into the world.’ 

“ While she was able to sit up, however, she embroidered a little 
cap for the child — I have it now, monsieur — Marguerite would 
sooner look at it than all the treasures on the earth — and said, when 
it was finished, ‘ This is all I shall ever do for my child. ’ 

“ She knew she should die at its birth — and she was right. She 
never even rallied enough to hold it in her arms. But, on the morn- 
ing of that day, she said to me, ‘ Manon, be faithful to my hus- 
band, as you have been to me, and never leave him and my child.’ 
I promised her, and I have kept my word. Monsieur, I feel the 
first drops of a thunder-shower, and it is supper- time, ” 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

Manon ’ s prediction was right. A violent thunder-stomi broke 
that night over Kersaint; and, when Philip prepared to depart at an 
early hour the following morning, the weather was still dark and 
lowering. 

“You had better not go,” said Marguerite, as they sat alone 
together at breakfast (Mr. St. John having taken leave of his visitor 
the previous evening), “lam sure there will be another storm, and 
one day can make no difference.” 

Philip, however, knew that each day did make a difference; and, 
for once, he remained firm. He went; and Marguerite fell that her 
whole life had become a blank. 


PHILIP EARiq^SCLIPFE. 


175 


The days succeeding his departure were dark and gloomy. Mr. 
St. John, who was affected by every change of weather, was not so 
well, and kept to his own room, and the lonely silence of her home 
struck Marguerite as it had never done before. She could not take 
the old interest in her birds and flowers, but she was too restless to 
remain within doors; and, except at those times when she was with 
her father, spent the entire day wandering near the sea, listening to 
its soothing, familiar voice, and dreaming those first dangerous 
dreams which further the progress of an absent lover, far better 
than his own presence. 

Philip was away more than a fortnight, exploring among the 
wilds of the Menes Arres hills, and the Loc Mariaker lakes. The 
lone grandeur of the scenery, and the character of the people among 
whom he passed, really interested him; he needed strong contrast 
to his soft, artificial life, and here he found it. But in his wander- 
ings, with no companion save his own thoughts, he had, unfortun- 
ately, quite as much time for dreaming as Marguerite; and he re- 
turned to Kersaint with his heart fuller of the little “wild daisy “ 
than when he started. 

During his absence the packet of books had arrived from London, 
and were opened, as Philip requested they should be, by Marguerite. 
In addition to the copies of his own works, he had ordered several 
new books which he thought would interest Mr. St. John, and one 
or two of a different nature for Marguerite. But all of these she 
laid aside; they were not his, and she scarcely thought of them 
again. The name of Philip Earnscliffe upon the title-pages of his 
works, had, for her childish eyes, a charm beyond everything she 
could have imagined. She made her father scrupulously reserve to 
himself the one bearing the latest date, which Philip told her was 
for Mr, St. John, and read and re-read the volume containing his 
early tales and poems with more deep interest and admiration than 
had ever been bestowed upon them in his time of first success. 
There were no faults for Marguerite; she enjoyed the fresh beauty 
* of the style, without perceiving its irregularity, and entered into all 
the young poet’s glowing visions of life, without knowing they were 
false. But to Mr. St. John the perusal of Earnscliffe’s last work 
laid open a page of the author’s own life. He knew that such ex- 
ceeding bitterness against one peculiar class of society could not flow 
from the pen of so young a writer if it were really a principle; and 
felt sure, from his own experience of human nature, that some great 
personal disappointment gave a latent tone to his writings. But of 
the true nature of this disappointment he could not even surmise. 


176 


PHILIP EARi^SCLIFPE. 


The idea of Philip being married, of course, never presented itself. 
Young and handsome, it was not likely that he should already have 
made shipwreck in love; and his literary career appeared to have 
been successful. So Mr. St. John, who was naturally somewhat 
apathetic about the concerns of others, simply conjectured that his 
guesi had passed through some one of the great trials of life, and 
troubled himself no further on the subject. 

When Philip returned, his host’s true and measured criticism 
upon his works, and Marguerite’s undisguised admiration of them, 
atforded him more real pleasure than any incense to . his author’s 
vanity which he had yet received. He remained some days at the 
Manoir, then made another more distant excursion; and in this man- 
ner two or three months passed,, quickly by. Mr. St. John and his 
daughter grew accustomed to his frequent absence, but they always 
awaited his return with renewed pleasure. Philip Earnscliffe was 
becoming a part of their existence — hitherto so barren in events — 
and they neither of them would even speak of the inevitable time 
when he should leave Brittany, and they return to their old monot- 
onous life An intellectual companion had roused Mr. St. John 
from his habitual melancholy, and given him once more an interest 
in the things he had cared for in other days; while Marguerite — 
poor little Marguerite! — every week made her feel the more that her 
whole earth was now concentrated into Philip’s presence. 

All this time he had guarded himself well. Constantly associat 
ing with Marguerite, watching all the dawnings of her young mind, 
reading but too truly the varying color of her cheeks, and in the 
full possession already of her every thought (that first soul-posses- 
sion which mocks at all other, and to which no future rival can. 
attain), he had yet breathed no syllable of his own fast deepening 
passion; he had said no word that she might not have listened to 
from a brother — nothing which her father might not have heard. 
That one kiss, whose recollection yet thrilled through him a hun- 
dred times that day, had been the first and last: — if he took her 
hand, his own pressure was grave and calm; and Earnscliffe thought 
that he was in all things acting like a man of honor. 

But the hour of awakening from this dream of self-reliance was 
very near. 

I think you should take Mr. Earnscliffe to the grotto of Morgane, 
Marguerite,” said Mr. St. John one evening to his daughter. 
” There is scarcely anything more curious in the neighborhood; 
and, indeed, in Brittany. Do you think it would be too far for you 
in this hot weather? If so Bruno must act as guide in your place.’* 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


177 


Marguerite did not think it would be in the least too far. ‘ ‘ They 
might start early, while it was yet cool, take a basket of provisions 
with them, and return at sunset, after spending a long day in the 
caves. She knew the way better than Bruno, and would be able to 
tell Mr. Earnscliffe all the different legends connected with the 
place. 

Mr. Earnscliffe appearing equally anxious with herself that she, 
and not Bruno, should be his companion, the expedition was soon 
planned, and it was settled that on the following Monday they 
should start by seven o’clock fcr the distant grotto. 

The next day was Sunday, and they went together to church; 
Manon having heard low mass at an earlier hour, in order to be 
with Mr. St. John during their absence, for his state was now so 
uncertain as to make her dread leaving him alone. 

It was a great festival of the church, and the music was more than 
usually fine. The morning sun streamed through the Gothic win- 
dows, throwing a thousand richly colored gems around the altar; the 
freshest flowers stood there, mingling their odors with the voluptu- 
ous sweetness of the incense; the notes of the 'organ stole in soft, 
prolonged whispers through each dim aislb and distant chapel of the 
immense cathedral; and when the priest, a tall and dignified-looking 
man, held aloft the glittering symbol of our salvation, and every 
head bowed before it in lowly reverence, Philip was carried away 
by all the poetry of the scene, and sunk on his knees upon the pave- 
ment. He felt somewhat ashamed of his enthusiasm, when, on 
glancing at Marguerite, he saw her calm and unmoved at his side, 
evidently fully enjoying the music and beauty around her, but wdth 
no trace of devotion upon her face. When they were on their way 
home he recurred to it, and asked her if the solemnity and grand 
effect of the service never made her feel half a Catholic. She 
looked quite surprised. 

“ Do you not know that I am of my father’s religion?” she an- 
swered. 

“Yes,” said Philip; “ but it would be only natural if you had a 
leaning occasionally toward the only faith whose services you have 
ever hear d cel ebrated . ” 

“ But it is not my father’s faith,” was her reply. 

That answer was the key-note to her whole character. Senti- 
ment, reason, religion itself must be derived with her from the per- 
son she loved. Hitherto this one person had been her father; and 
she could not even admit the possibility of temptation to feel other- 
wise than he had taught. Perfect trust in him was the leading 


178 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


article in her early belief, and she was now unconsciously extending 
this faith to Philip. 

The following morning was hazy and full of promise, a true sum- 
mer morning; and by a little after seven they had started for their 
distant walk. Marguerite was radiant with spirits, but Philip felt 
less inclined to talk than usual. The perpetual restraint under 
which he forced himself to act began to chafe him; and perhaps 
some internal warning told him that this long, lonely day together 
would not be passed through without betraying him into words that 
nothing could elface; while Marguerite’s unconstrained and growing 
familiarity made his position only the more difficult to maintain. 

Nearly their whole road lay by the sea-side. For the first mile 
they kept on the sands; but then, as the tide was now in, they were 
obliged to ascend a high cliff intervening between them and the 
next bay, which at low water might be reached by the rocks. The 
road was steep, but Marguerite was accustomed to climbing, and as 
the sun was not yet hot they soon reached the summit, where a 
wide table-land lay spread before them. The scene was monotonous 
in the extreme, yet still possessing a kind of indefinable harmony 
which was not without its charm. The rocks festooned with heath 
in full flower-— the mysterious Druid circles of stones— the silence 
only broken by the hoarse, measured whisper of the waves far be- 
neath — all was in unison; and the sea-breeze, which at this height 
was as invigorating as real mountain aiiy made Marguerite’s young 
blood circulate in her veins with a feeling of actual pleasure. But 
Philip was still depressed. The view before them was just of that 
unmarked character which takes its coloring entirely from the tone 
of spirits in which it is seen, and the immensity, the solitude, the 
perfect repose, weighed upon him, while they stimulated his com- 
panion. 

“ Look!” she exclaimed, suddenly, touching his hand with her 
accustomed quick gesture — “ a chase!” 

He turned and saw, almost immediately behind them, two birds, 
whose cries had attracted her notice; one, a heron, who was still 
considerably ahead, and in pursuit of her one of the larger kind of 
hawk. 

‘‘Poor bird!” continued Marguerite; “I hope she will escape.” 
And they stood still and watched this natural “hawking,” which 
soon became so near a chase as to be considerably exciting. 

The hawk gained gradually upon his prey, and was at length so 
close that they expected each moment to see him strike. He had, 
however, missed his aim, or in the ardor of pursuit forgotten 


PHILIP EARl^SCLIFPE. 


179 


his usual wariness, and instead of flying over the heron, and 
thus securing her at once, he passed about a foot beneath 
her, receiving at the same instant a vigorous stroke from her long 
beak, which made him turn over twice or thrice in the air with 
pain. At first it seemed as though he would descend to the ground; 
but then, giving a shrill, angry cry of defiance, he rose with re- 
doubled energy to the pursuit. Meantime, the heron had profited 
by her temporary advantage, and taken a fresh turn toward a dis- 
tant shelter of fir-wood, hoping this time to save herself by distance, 
not height. But the hawk saw the maneuver, and cutting diagon- 
ally through the air with the rapidity of an arrow, he almost met 
her in her downward flight. The heron gave two or three screams 
of distress, and once again attempted to escape by suddenly rising 
perpendicularly as she had done at first; her pursuer followed her 
hotly, and after some seconds the two birds became like two mere 
black specks upon the pale sky. 

“Will she escape?” cried Marguerite, quite breathless in anxiety 
for the heron’s fate. “ Poor bird, did you hear her cry?” 

“ No,” returned Philip; “ she will not escape. It is an unequal 
contest, the weak against the strong, as is usual in this world.” 

‘ ‘ See — see, ’ ’ Marguerite exclaimed, ‘ ‘ the hawk is uppermost 
now, and listen to her screams!” 

As she spoke, a long cry, just audible in its intense agony of dis- 
tress, was again heard, and both birds began swiftly to descend. 
The heron now attempted no longer to defend herself; she sank 
rapidly, only answering to the incessant strokes of the hawk by her 
screams. Suddenly she folded her wings, and shot downward like 
a stone. It was her last feint, but her antagonist did the same; and 
when she again attempted to take flight, a tremendous blow from 
his beak finally overcame her. She continued to fall, occasionally 
turning over in the air, and at the moment that she touched the 
earth, the hawk pounced down upon her with an exulting shriek 
that drowned her last faint cry. 

The two spectators had watched the final scene with equal inter- 
est, and tears for the heron’s death stood in Marguerite’s eyes. But 
there was a singular expression upon Earnsclitfe’s face. 

“The weak against the strong,” he repeated, as they resumed 
their path. 

Marguerite little knew that the unequal struggle between the two 
birds could have awakened any cornparison to themselves in his 
mind. 

“ I have watched this kind (d chase before,” she said, “ but never 


180 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


saw the weaker bird escape. How could the ladies in olden times, 
whom I have read about to my father, delight in assisting in such 
cruel sport?” 

“ It is an unnatural feeling for your sex,” replied Philip. “ In 
ours, the delight of hunting and destroying what is weak is inherent 
from our cradles. As school-boys we persecute every defenseless 
creature we come across; as men — ” 

“Well,” said Marguerite, “why do you hesitate? Surely you 
were not going to say that all men are cruel! At least I know two 
exceptions: my father w^ould not destroy a worm upon the path; 
and you, Mr. Earnscliffe, I am sure, would protect everything 
weaker than yourself.” 

The unconscious appeal touched him. 

“I believe I would, dear Marguerite,” he answered. “But at 
least I am glad that you extend your favorable opinions of human- 
ity to me.” He looked down into her trusting face, and impulsive 
in everything, suddenly determined to tell her at once of his mar- 
riage. It was on^ of his better resolutions, and he gave himself no 
time to waver. 

‘ ‘ Come, Marguerite, ’ ’ he continued, ‘ ‘ we have still a long day 
before us; let us rest awhile on the heath under the shelter of yon- 
der group of firs, and converse a little. I have something to tell 
you in which, I believe, you will take an interest.” 

They walked on about a hundred yards, to the solitary trees he 
mentioned. Marguerite’s eyes dancing in expectation of the secret 
she was to hear, and she then seated hei’self , her head leaning 
against one of the fir trunks, while Philip took his place at some 
distance from her, and with his face averted from his companion. 

“ "Now begin,” she cried. “ I am sure it is something very in- 
teresting.” 

“ To me it is,” he returned, “ although I have no reason for sup- 
posing it should be so to others. It is about myself — ” 

“That is right,” interrupted Marguerite. “Only yesterday I 
told my father I should like to know all the history of your life, and 
I even wished him to ask you; but he said you would tell us just as 
much as you liked, and I ought not to be so curious. Now, you 
will tell me all — and, first, why you are sometimes so sad.” 

She turned her large eyes upon him with a look of childish affec- 
tion, that might again have made him irresolute had he seen their 
expression; but his own were intently fixed upon the tiny blossoms 
of the wild thyme at their feet, and with a sort of effort he began. 
He told her of his childhood, of his parents’ death, of his uncle’s 


PHILIP EARiq'SCLIFFE. 


181 


kindness, of his school-boy dreams, and tried to linger over all these 
early recollections, which delayed him, as it were, in his approach 
to the darker period of his life. Marguerite liked to hear every de- 
tail, and when at length he spoke of his first book and its success, 
she clasped her hands and exclaimed with pleasure. He then told 
her somewhat of his progress in great London; he mentioned Neville 
and one or two or his other friends, and at last he brought his lips 
to speak of Lady Clara. 

“ Was Lady Clara very beautiful?” she asked, timidly. 

“ She was not beautiful; she was pale and sickly, and rarely 
smiled.” 

“ Was she young?” 

‘ ‘ Older than myself. ’ ’ 

” Was she — I mean— did your cousin like you very much?” 

Earnscliffe only smiled bitterly at the question; and Marguerite 
was silent. Without knowing why, she felt her heart throb pain- 
fully, and an odd, stifled sensation at her throat. Had Philip loved 
his cousin without return? 

“ Marguerite,” he resumed abruptly, I can better describe my 
cousin’s character when I have told you the real tie which binds her 
to me. Lady Clara is my wife. ’ ’ 

“Your wife!” she stammered; “ your wife! Are you married?” 
The words died away and with it all the flush of youth on Mar- 
guerite’s face. Married! She looked aside over the vast heath, at 
the gray curlews which circled round the Druid stones, and the fern 
leaves waving in the wind, and knew that it was all monotonous 
and dreary, though the sun shone brighter than ever. 

“ Yes,” he went on with desperate resolution, “ I have been mar- 
ried for some years; but my marriage has been misery to me. I have 
long been parted from my wife; I would give all in this world, yes, 
my talents, my hope for the future itself, to undo that miserable 
marriage. The recollection of it is so bitter to me, that on coming 
abroad I resolved to mention it to none but those already acquainted 
with my past history, and thus I have deceived you, too. Will you 
forgive me?” 

The sorrow on his face was so real that she forgot herself, and ex- 
tended her hand to him. Earnscliffe pressed it, hesitated, then re- 
linquished it abruptly, and went on with his story. He told her of 
his uncle’s losses, of the failure of his own literary prospects, lastly, 
of his wife’s leaving him; and if he spoke little of his own errors it 
was out of respectful feelings toward the innocent girl who listened 
to hirn, not from any idea of exculpating himself. “I have told 


182 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


you all, Marguerite,” were liis last words. “ Now you must be my 
judge.” 

She looked at him irresolutely for a few moments without speak- 
ing; and during that time her thoughts were painful ones. Then 
all recollection of herself, or her own faintly dawning hopes, died 
within her. She saw him forsaken, disappointed in his nearest ties 
and remembered him only. 

“Philip,” she whispered — she had never called him so before — 
“ they have all left you. Will you let me love you, and be your 
sister?” and before he had divined her intention, she took his hand 
and raised it to her lips. 

The reader (especially if a young lady) must again remember 
poor Marguerite’s perfect ignorance of the world before judging 
her too harshly. Of course, had she been properly educated, she 
would have at once returned home to her father on discovering that 
Philip was married, and have felt a fitting amount of indignation at 
so nearly being led into loving him! But Marguerite knew abso- 
lutely nothing of decorum; and she therefore stified in her own 
bosom at once, and with a silent pain, those half-formed visions of 
the future which during the last few weeks had begun to spread 
their golden vista before her. And seeing Philip a lonely, and as 
she understood, forsaken man, she tried to comfort him with the 
same childish caress that had so often won a smile from the pale lips 
of her father. 

He withdrew his hand hastily from her touch. • 

“ Have I offended you?” she asked softly, but with no feeling of 
shame. “ Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe! I wish I knew what to say; indeed, 
I should like to show how much I feel for you,” and again she 
ventured to touch his hand. Philip started to his feet. 

“ But I am married, child! How can 1 talk to you of love? How 
can I suffer myself to receive your innocent kindness? Do you not 
hear that I am married?” 

His voice had never sounded so harsh to Marguerite before. 

“Yes, sir,” she answered, looking timidly up. “But have I 
offended you? Will you not let me be your little sister? lam 
ignorant and childish, I know : yet you see how my father loves me, 
and if you — ” 

Philip took a few paces upon the turf; then he stopped short, 
and he was very pale; but for the present the mastery was gained. 

“ Marguerite,” he said, “ you are a child. You know nothing of 
life or humcin nature; and what you offer is impossible. There can 
be no talk of brotherly love between a man of my age and a young 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


183 


girl like yourself. You know not what you say when you ask it. 
Look upon me as your lather’s friend — as your own friend, if you 
will — but nothing else. I could not love you as a brother,” he 
added, bitterly. 

She rose to her feet. Not a glimmering of his real meaning had 
reached her. Her cheeks had never flushed at his words; and, in a 
saddened voice, she proposed that they should continue their walk. 
She only felt that he had rejected her affection; and her loving nat- 
ure, not her pride, was wounded. 

” Forgive me for what I have said!” she whispered, after they 
had walked some distance in silence. 

Earnscliffe was only human; and when he looked down into that 
sweet, beseeching face, is it wonderful that warmer words than he 
intended once more found their way to his lips? 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Are you not tired, Marguerite?” 

“No; I am seldom tired, monsieur.” 

“ You are paler than usual. Take my arm, child; the ascent is 
steep.” 

She looked at him wistfully as he spoke, and then accepted his 
proffered assistance. 

Marguerite could not understand Earnscliffe that day, or interpret 
his changing mood — at one time so cold and formal, and then 
warmer than he had ever been to her before. But she thought the 
recollection of his marriage had, perhaps, made him fitful and 
capricious, and tried to render her own manner to him more kind 
than usual.' Yet even as she walked, and strove to speak cheerfully 
of the objects around, the painful feeling at her heart would return, 
and unbidden tears start into her eyes. Was it all sympathy for 
Earnscliffe? Marguerite knew not. 

They had soon finished the ascent of the last hill, and were on 
the summit of the steeps of Morgane, which formed a boldly jutting 
promontory of down and cliff; and the sea lay around them on all - 
sides save that by which they had approached. Blue and silent it 
lay; only dotted over by the tiny sails of the fisher-boats, or the 
black rocks, around which there was scarcely sufficient foam to 
whiten; and the sea-birds skimmed lazily over the quiet world of 
waters. 

“ Our path is here,” said Marguerite, approaching to the very 


1S4 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


edge of the cliff; “ but I have first a visit to make to my friend the 
gabarier. That is his house.” She pointed to a rude kind of hut, 
built into a corner of the rock, about thirty feet beneath them, and 
so completely of the same gray color, as at first to be scarcely dis- 
tinguishable. The roof was merely a mass of dried sea weed, kept 
down by some enormous stones; and the smoke from the peat-fire, 
issuing through more than one aperture, showed that the midday 
meal of the family was preparing. The gabarier himself sat out- 
side the door on the small platform of projecting earth, which 
formed the extent of his worldly possessions, employed in mending 
nets, and watching some four or five half-clad urchins, who were 
seated on the very edge of a precipice of several hundred feet, kick- 
ing their legs in the air, and trying to push each other off, in a man- 
ner which in no way discomposed their parent — these being the 
daily practices of the infant Blaisots, from the time they could walk 
alone. 

Marguerite tripped down the steep path which led to the hut, and 
then suddenly calling, “ Pere Blaisot!” made the boatman start 
round in surprise. His harsh features lighted up on seeing Mar- 
guerite, who ran to his side and said a few words, which made him 
turn and uncover to Earnscliffe. 

“ We are going to visit the caves, Pere Blaisot. The tide is just 
right, is it not, and the weather too?” 

“ For the tide,” he replied, in his rude patois, “ you must wait 
an hour and a half. For the weather you had best not go at all. ” 

“Why?” said Marguerite; “the sky is clear, and the sea with- 
out a ripple.” 

“Nevertheless, there will be a storm before night,” was the 
reply. “ I have not lived alone for thirty years among. the rocks, 
without getting to understand the signs of the weather. Take the 
geniilhomme to the grotto if you will; but return quickly, little 
queen. It will be no evening for such as you to be out.” 

Marguerite translated his words to Earnscliffe, who only smiled 
in reply, as he glanced toward the blue horizon, over which there 
appeared not even the faintest shadow of a cloud. 

“ He does not believe me,” said the gabarier, resuming his net- 
ting. “ May be he knows best — night will show.” 

“ Nay, father,” said Marguerite, “ I believe you are always right 
in these things; and we will certainly return quickly from the 
grotto. Meanwhile, will you let one of the children carry our basket 
for us down the cliff, for we shall have enough to do minding our 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


185 


own steps; and, as we have still an hour to spare, w^e will eat^ur 
dinner among the cool rocks until the tide is down.” 

“Moser!” called the gabarier — and a sunburned imp of seven 
summers disentangled himself from the heap of small humanity 
which overhung the precipice, and ran up to him. “ Where is your 
basket, little queen?” he added. 

Marguerite gave it into Moser’s hands, and his black eyes were 
already sparkling at the idea of purloining dainties on the way, 
when the gabarier snatched it himself, with a nod, indicating small 
belief in the good principles of his son. He then bound the lid 
strongly to the basket with a piece of fishing-line, and administered 
a hint to its bearer, that if he attempted to open it, his grandam 
should whip him; and the expression which this awful promise 
awakened on Moser’s face showed that the threat was well selected, 

“ Be off!” cried the boatman; “ fiy!” 

The child seized the basket, and appeared actually to bound across 
the edge of the cliff. Earnscliffe could hardly repress an exclama- 
tion of horror; but on approaching cautiously, he descried a kind of 
goat-track that, from above, seemed absolutely perpendicular, but 
down which the little rock-imp was already making fast progress. 

“ Is this the road?” he inquired. 

“Yes,” said Marguerite, “ but it is nothing to what you will find 
it lower down. This is easy walking. Good-bye, Pere Blaisot; we 
will be sure to come back before the storm. ’ ’ 

The path was certainly not so steep as it had appeared; still it 
required steady nerves and a light foot, and the dry weather made 
it somewhat slippery. Earnscliffe, in his boyhood, had been a 
fearless climber, and thought nothing of the descent for himself: 
but he was astonished at Marguerite’s perfect coolness, and the 
speed at which she turned the abrupt points overhanging the sea. 
She was so accustomed to these kind of walks, that it never oc- 
curred to her to look for his assistance, and she did not even turn 
round until they were more than half-way down.- Here the path 
ceased altogether, and they had to descend an abrupt wall or cliff, 
several feet deep, at whose base was a bed of loose soil leading down 
to a perfect debris of broken rocks and stones. She paused. 

“ This is the worst part, and you must help me, Mr. Earnscliffe. 
I am not quite like the gabarier’s children, who can climb up and 
down the bare granite like little spiders.” 

Philip swung himself down the rock, and then extended his hand 
to Marguerite. 

“ Come,” he said, “ I will lift you safely.” 


186 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


She was not fearful of danger, as he had seen; hut for a second 
she shrunk back, and she felt that her face flushed crimson. 

“lam afraid — ” she began. 

“ Nay,'” returned Philip, gravely; “ you are safe with me; come!” 

She had to kneel before he could reach her waist, then he lifted 
her quickly to the ledge beside him; but Marguerite thought she 
felt that strong arm tremble. 

“ Can you walk along this narrow track alone, if you are so nerv- 
ous at looking from a height?” 

“ Oh! I was not afraid of that,'' she answered, looking up so art- 
lessly in his face that he could not forbear smiling. Marguerite 
could never be a woman for more than one minute together. 

“You were afraid of me, then?” 

“ I did not like— I mean to say it would have been better — ” But 
she felt she was again betraying herself; and, without finishing, 
ran quickly past that he might not see her face. 

There were more difficulties to surmount, however, more rocks to 
descend, and by the time they had reached the shining sands which 
lay at the base of the cliffs, all recollections of Philip’s marriage, and 
the result produced upon both by its disclosure, seemed to be for- 
gotten. They were just on their old friendly terms; and Margue- 
rite’s cheeks as bright, or a shade brighter, than when they left Ker- 
saint. 

They found Moser seated in the middle of some wet sand, the 
fierce sun streaming full upon his bare head, while with eager eyes 
and scent he vainly attempted to guess at the contents of the basket, 
through the wicker-work. 

“ Moser!” cried Marguerite. He sprung up detected, and, doubt- 
less with his grandam’s bony fingers already crackling in prospec- 
tive over his ears, began pouring forth a voluminous mixture of 
tears and gibberish. Marguerite told him, however, he had per- 
formed his task well, and opening the basket gave him some fruit, 
and then a piece of two sous, which sent him home rejoicing, to dis- 
play his spoils. 

“Now where shall we dine?” she said. 

They selected the shady side of a huge rock, where the sands were 
dry, and near which a trickling stream furnished them with cold, 
fresh water. Marguerite spread the snowy serviette, of Manon’s 
providing, upon a small, flat rock on the sands, and laid out their 
picnic upon it. And a merry meal they made! The}’’ had forgot- 
ten knives and forks, of course, and she laughed heartily at Philip’s 
affectation, when he was obliged to eat with his fingers; and they 


PHILIP EARN^SCLIFFE. 


187 


had only one glass between them, and he would always insist drink- 
ing after her, although she offered each time to get him fresh water 
from the brook; and — oh, reader! if you are young, 1 need not 
paint this happy two hours to you; if you are not, you must re- 
member at least one such morning of your youth, and not require 
my description. 

“ We are just like children,” said Marguerite, at length, trying 
to call up a look of dignity. “ Here we are, wasting the whole 
afternoon, when we have so much to see in the caves; and, beside, 
we have forgotten the gabarier’s storm.” 

” Of which there are at present few signs,” added Earnscliffe. 
“We are quite happy here, Marguerite. You ought to sing some 
ballad connected with the scene before I see these wondrous caves — 
nnd I am sure they will look better at sunset. I should like to hear 
your voice first. ” 

She sung to him, and they lingered yet an hour before starting 
for the grotto. Both seemed to have an instinctive feeling that this 
was in some manner a farewell to their past life together; every- 
thing they said was tinged with the tone we adopt on the “ last 
day.” They could neither of them have framed this presentiment 
into language; but it existed: and never had the presence of both 
possessed for the other so deep a charm before. 

At length they rose, and slowly pursued their way. The caves 
were on the other side of the creek, but at no great distance from 
the spot where they had dined; and, after traversing one or two 
short subterranean passages among the rocks, they again emerged 
upon the sand opposite the entrance to the principal grotto of Mor- 
gane, where they stopped for a few minutes to remark the singular 
character of the cliffs among which it lay before preparing to enter. 
Huge, red pyramids shot up against the pale sky on one side, on the 
left, slate-colored reefs of granite, piled one upon another, overhung 
the sea in giddy, aSrial galleries: while in many parts the rocks 
were hollowed out by the action of the waves into gigantic arcades, 
now filled with swarms of gray curlews, whose incessant cries might 
have told to more experienced hearers that a storm was not far off. 

The entrance to the grotto was so low that they were forced to 
walk for some yards in a stooping posture, and then found them- 
selves in such complete darkness as to be unable for several minutes 
to distinguish any object around them. Gradually, however, the 
jobscurity seemed to diminish, and a faint bluish ray stole through 
the low aperture they had entered, along the shining walls and 
sandy floor of the cave, until, as the eye at last became accustomed 


188 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


to this half-light, the whole grotto rose before them like some scene 
in a child’s fairy book. 

The roof was about forty feet in height, and was completely cov- 
ered with a glittering vitrification, extending down the sides to the 
base. Long veins of the deepest red and pale green marbled the 
dome, and gave a softer beauty to the savage grandeur of this nat- 
ural palace. In the middle stood one huge rock of rose-colored 
granite, rendered smooth as marble by the constant washing of the 
waves at high water, and at the extreme further end was a bank of 
bright-colored sand. 

Some of this sa.nd Marguerite collected for Manon, who thought 
it a great ornament to the flower-pots in her windows, and afterward 
she began picking up shells — of which a variety in every shade of 
color lay profusely on the ground — while Philip stood watching the 
singular beauty of the scene, and thinking how well Marguerite 
might have personated Undine, in her little white dress, and with 
her bright hair falling round her shoulders. Again they forgot the 
time, until a sudden crimson ray fell upon the green rock, just 
above Marguerite’s head, and made Philip exclaim that there must 
be some opening on this side of the cave, and that it was already 
sunset. 

“ And time for us to be going,” added Marguerite. “We will 
just explore this new entrance, and then return at once.” 

Directed by the streak of sunshine, they were not long in finding 
another egress, and, after a little climbing, again emerged into the 
open air. The altered appearance of the sky struck both of them at 
once. Had they noticed more closely, they would have observed, 
even before entering the caves, that a few light mists had arisen over 
the western horizon. Now the entire sky was covered with masses 
of ominous -looking cloud, edged with gold, and of a deep, inky 
purple, that foreboded coming tempest. The sun shone with a lurid 
crimson from out the dark bank into which he was just sinking; the 
air was oppressively heavy; the sea still qiiiet. 

“ The storm is coming,” said Marguerite. “ Blaisot was right, 
after all.” 

“Yes,” returned Philip. “ I scarcely think we shall have time 
to reach his hut again before it begins. See, there are a few drops 
already; we had better remain under shelter of the rocks until it is 
over; it will probably not last long.” 

Philip had not understood the gabarier’s warning; and, observing 
the water still comparatively low, and far away upon the sands, he 
thought only of shelter for Marguerite during the storm, and did 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFFE. 


189 


not calculate upon the return of the tide. He was unaware of the 
treacherous circles in which it rises on these shores, often leaving a 
space of some miles apparently still free, while its victims have, in 
fact, been surrounded. So they merely withdrew a few steps under 
the overhanging rocks, and watched the progress of the storr^. 

“Are you frightened. Marguerite?” he asked, for she looked 
pale. 

“ Ho, I am with you; I was thinking of my father,” 

“ He will believe us safe at the boatman’s cabin by this time. 
He will not know how we forgot the hour, like children. Mar- 
guerite. ’ ’ 

She tried to smile; then drew closer to his side, and said, “ But I 
know he will be anxious for me; and it will hurt him in his weak, 
nervous state. How I wish we had not lingered!” 

The sun had now completely disappeared beneath the heavy ridges 
of cloud; and, as Marguerite finished speaking, a sudden flash of 
lightning almost blinded them. It was closely followed by a long 
peal of thunder, which echoed and reverberated through the hollow 
of the rocks, until another and a louder peal succeeded. Those who 
have not actually witnessed it, can form no conception of the un- 
earthly character of a storm in such a position as that in which they 
were now placed. The echoes of thunder amcmg high mountains 
are sublime and grand; but, given back by these rocks and caverns, 
they have a weird, terrific sound, like voices from chained demons 
in the earth, and can scarcely be heard without an unacknowledged 
dread of the supernatural. Soon the lightning was playing around 
them in all directions — the rain poured down in torrents — and, the 
wind having suddenly arisen, the distant waves were seen rising 
angrily above the sands. 

Earnscliffe had still no idea of their perilous position; he merely 
thought that, should it come to the worst, and the storm had not 
abated as the tide rose, they would have to walk through the 
drenching rain to the gabarier’s hut. He knew not that every lost 
moment'^was bringing them nearer to inevitable destruction. 

“ Lean on me, dear Marguerite; you are terrified.” 

“Ho! Mr. Earnscliffe; I see God everywhere around me; lam 
not terrified — but for my father.” 

“ The storm may not be so violent at Kersaint; indeed, I think it 
is abating slightly, even now — the rain is already not so heavy.” 

‘ ‘ But the waves are higher. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ They will not harm us. As soon as the rain is over, we will 
get on before the tide rises higher. ” 


190 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFPE. 


“ The tide!” repeated Marguerite. '' Is the tide rising?” 

“ I should think it was half way in; see, it has surrounded yonder 
black rock, which seemed a mile from the sea when we first looked 
out. ^ But we have plenty of time.” 

“ We have not!” cried Marguerite, seizing his hand, while her 
own grew cold and damp with sudden terror. ” The gabarier told 
me not to remain in the grotto one moment after the tide had turned, 
and it is already half-way in.” 

” Child, you should have told me sooner,” was Philip’s calm re- 
ply. , “ God grant it be not yet too late!” 

He passed his arm round her slight form, and almost carried her 
back through the narrow opening of the rock — a few more seconds, 
and they had crossed the grotto. Then he placed her against the 
center rock, and bade her wait for a minute, while he looked out at 
the weather. 

Earnscliffe had a stout heart, but it quailed before the sight which 
awaited him. The water was nearly at the mouth of the cave, and 
already separated them from the mainland by a broad and increas- 
ing channel. Quickl}^ it came on; each terrific wave bearing aloft 
a crest of whitened foam, and bringing death for them. They were 
waves no swimmer could have stemmed for many minutes, even 
had he been unburdened, and Earnscliffe knew that for their rescue 
his own powers were vain. Unless escape on the other side were 
possible, certain death was before them. 

He returned into the grotto — whose shining roof and spangled 
fioor might so soon be their tomb — and found his companion pale, 
but perfectly silent. One glance at his face told her all. 

‘‘We are surrounded!” she cried. “ I hear the waves already.” 

“We are surrounded. Marguerite,” he answered; “but our 
longest chance of life is at the point we have quitted. The sea will 
cover the sand at our feet in a few minutes.” 

He took her in his arms — she lay cold and still — and carried her 
quickly back to the distant opening, which was many feet higher 
than the fioor of the grotto; and there, on the rock where Uiey had 
watched the sunset, he seated himself. Marguerite still clinging to 
him, and her long hair falling round his neck. 

Escape in this direction he had seen at a glance was hopeless. The 
high, bare rocks, which overhung the shore, were peipendicular, 
even could they have reached them; but a current through one of 
the many tunnels at the back of the principal cavern had already cut 
off retreat upon this side also; and the smooth granite which rose 
immediately behind them afforded not even clinging hold for the 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


191 


sea- weed which clothed the more distant rocks. Death was ap- 
proaching them; not slowly, hut with each onward surge of the 
waves — with every fresh gust of the tempest. In another half-hour 
they must pass through a darker sea than the one before them; in 
another half-hour they would be in eternity! 

They remained silent. Marguerite had gathered from Earns- 
cliffe'^ face the dread extent of their danger; no sound, however, 
escaped her lips — she was only deadly pale. But the full color of 
life was on Philip’s cheek. It was a moment ‘in which human pas- 
sion would be supposed to die before the might of infinity around, 
and the certain approach of destruction; when the soul, paralyzed 
to every other emotion, would be concentrated upon its own fate 
alone, and forget the tumult of earthly desire which it had exper- 
ienced a short hour or two before. But with Earnscliife it was not 
so. Life held no object for him so dear as the one to whom he was 
to be united in death; and he felt, with a strange rapture, that he 
might at length hold her to his heart, and disclose his passion to her 
without sin. He felt himself already freed from the chain of his 
marriage; and that, for the half-hour of time which yet remained, 
the only woman he had ever loved was his. His in a more perfect 
possession than life could have bestowed— his in her latest breath — 
in her death-agony. He folded her closer still to his bosom, as 
though already preparing for the coming struggle, when the waves 
should essay to part them; he pressed his lips upon her lips; he 
poured forth such words of passionate love as no moment in real 
living life could have wrung from him; he thanked Heaven he 
might die with her. 

“ Speak to me, beloved, one word; tell me, now when God alone 
can hear, that if I had been free would you have loved me?” 

Even at that moment of approaching death her face fiushed more 
brightly than on the May morning when, full of life, he had seen 
her among the fiowers. 

“Oh, Philip! I liam loved you. I have thought of nothing 
but you since I have known you, and I am glad to die with you — 
except for my father,” she added. 

He did not hear her last words, he only heard that she loved him, 
that she was glad to be his in death; and his brain turned. 

% 

* * * * * * 

The storm raged on, the wind moaned wildly around them, and 
the thunder rolled unceasingly along the cavern. But the conflict of 
human passion in Earnscliffe’s bosom was fiercer. With his cheek 


192 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


bent down to hers, and his arms clasped round her as though to 
still the uneven beatings of her heart, he heard every whisper from 
her lips among all the tumultuous roar of the hurricane, felt every 
trembling breath she drew, and counted them greedily, for he 
knew their number was measured. 

The waves drew on. Already he felt their spray upon his fore- 
head. But he onl}^ pressed her more closely, and never raised his 
eyes from her face; when suddenly the throbbing of Marguerite’s 
heart seemed to cease; a livid color gained round her lips, and her 
hands relaxed in their hold upon his — she had fainted. The mingled 
conflict of emotions had been more than she could bear; she lay 
cold and senseless in his arms. 

A sudden revulsion came over Earnscliffe. As he looked into her 
pure marble face, passion left him, and only the nobler part of love 
remained. He did not even press his lips again upon those helpless 
ones, which so latelj^ were all resigned to his; he parted back the 
hair from her forehead softl}^ as a mother might have done for her 
dying child; and then rising to his feet, he clasped her to his side, 
and in that awful moment prayed God to have mercy upon them 
both! 

Mercy upon their souls only, the time was past for aught else. 
The next wave washed to Earnscliffe’s feet; the next made him 
stagger slightly; the next, he was already breast-high. He retreated 
to the very highest attainable point; and there the waters from the 
interior of the cave were fast whitening through the opening. An- 
other minute, and they and the sea would be one! 

Buffeted upon every side, he yet held his senseless burden aloft, 
and strove to keep her from destruction to the last; but in vain. 
Already Marguerite’s long hair was floating on the water, and 
Earnscliffe, carried completely off his feet, was clinging with one 
hand to the only mass of sea-weed which grew upon the rock above 
them — the last frail stay which kept them from eternity — when, 
amidst the roar of the waves, a long, shrill cry fell upon his ear. 

It might be only the shriek of a curlew that had lost her shelter; 
but to Earnscliffe the sound appeared that of a human voice, and it 
quickened his desperate hold upon the sea- weed, whose slimy, 
treacherous substance was already gliding from his hand. A wave 
higher and stronger than those which had preceded, broke over 
them at this moment, beating Philip against the rock with a force 
that almost stunned him, and causing him half to relax his hold 
upon Marguerite. But still, with the undying instinct of self-pres- 
ervation, his other hand again sought the rock, and attempted to 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. . 


193 


y 

clutch at its surface. This time he failed, l^othing but the smooth, 
polished granite met his grasp; and another wave like the last must 
inevitably have sealed their doom, when again the cry arose, this 
time distinct and near; and through the blinding spray, and the 
dimness of his own bewildered brain, Earnscliffe descried, close be- 
side them, a boat containing human figures. 

His whole energy returned at the sight. Life, dear life, w^as be-" 
fore him. Still holding Marguerite to his side, with his right arm 
he battled against the waves as none but a practiced swimmer could 
have done, striving to keep above water until the rescue reached 
them. And, though apparently close at hand, it was yet some time 
before the boat could near the rock, the height and power of the 
weaves being such as to place her almost beyond the control of her 
crew; and once when they were within an oar’s length of Philip, 
and the cry of triumph had broken from the lips of the gallant boat- 
men, a wild eddy again carried them back many feet from the fast- 
sinking forms they had risked their own lives to save. But they 
had stout hearts and strong arms, these Breton gabariers, and they 
gained the struggle! Half-senseless, bruised, fainting, Earnscliffe 
at length felt that a powerful arm had relieved him of his still inan- 
imate burden, and in another second he lay himself in the bottom 
of the boat. 

He knew not how long he remained insensible. When he re- 
turned to consciousness he found that they were still at sea; and 
for some moments the gigantic waves by which they w^ere surround- 
ed, the lightning- fiashes across the lurid sky, and the harsh features 
of the boatmen, seemed to him only the recollections of some fear- 
vful dream, from which he was awakening. But he then became 
conscious of a soft hand clasped upon his own, of a pale, sweet face 
bending down an4 gazing into his with breathless anxiety, and all 
the past returned to his recollection. 

Marguerite had quickly recovered from her swoon; and Earns- 
cliffe had so well protected her, by placing himself between her and 
the rock, that she was scarcely injured, although numbed and faint 
from cold. When, from the hurried words of the gabarier, she 
learned how they had been rescued in the very moment of certain- 
destruction, her first thought was of her father, and a fervent 
thanksgiving to Heaven for her own safety. The second was of 
Earnscliffe. 

Amidst the strange chaos of memory, warm, passionate words re- 
echoed in her heart — words spoken by his lips — and she turned 
round timidly, expecting still to find him at her side. 


194 


PHILIP EARNSCLIPFE. 


He was there, extended lifeless along the bottom of the boat, his- 
hair lying in dark, tangled masses upon his forehead, his lips apart 
and livid. Marguerite sunk by him in a moment, and unmindful 
of the storm which raged around them — unmindful of the presence 
of the boatmen, she hung over Philip, chafing his hands with her 
own, and looking down into his face with an agony such as her life 
had never known before. 

She loved him — she believed him dead; what was now her own 
safety to Marguerite? What would it have mattered to her if the 
eyes of the whole world had been upon them? 

It was then that he returned to consciousness, and through long 
after- years of separation Marguerite never forgot the rapture of that 
moment, when the first deep breath of life escaped his lips! 

The night drew on apace. By the time they reached the shore 
they could scarcely see an object around them ; and although the 
storm had somewhat abated, it was a long and toilsome ascent to 
the hut of the gabarier. For, drenched and numbed with cold. 
Marguerite’s limbs refused to aid her; and the path was a difficult 
one for even those stout men accustomed to live among the rocks, 
when it had thus to be surmounted in perfect darkness, with the 
burden of her form in their arms. And Earnscliffe, although his 
strong frame had already partially recovered from the shock it had 
sustained, was yet weak and unsteady, and required assistance in 
all the more perilous turnings of the path. 

A bright peat -fire was ready burning in the gabarier ’s hut. When 
tlie storm was first threatening, and he could see from his look-out 
among the crags that the stranger and Marguerite were yet lingering 
in the caves, he had dispatched Moser to recall them; but the child, 
frightened at the sounds of thunder, or from mere willfulness, had 
returned and hidden himself outside the hut, not daring to tell his 
father that he had disobeyed him. Nearly two hours afterward one 
of his brothers had discovered him there; and the gabarier ’s rage 
was fearful when the boy acknowledged that he had never reached 
the 3mung lady and the Englishman. He swore that, as their lives 
had been sacrificed through his own son, his should be also risked in 
attempting to save them; and dashed down the rocks toward the 
creek where his boat was moored, with an oath, and a set look upon 
his face which made his wife’s heart tremble. Her own brother, a 
neighboring fisherman, happened to be in the cabin at the time, and 
she begged him so piteously to follow her husband and help, that 
he consented to do so, although he, too, had a wife and children 
dependent for their existence upon them. 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


195 . 


As night drew on, and the storm continued, and still they re- 
turned not, the suspense of Blaisot’s wife became agony. She looked 
on her five sleeping children, and knew that, if their father perished, 
they would cry for bread on the morrow, and in her heart she could 
almost have cursed the stranger, whose idle curiosity had been the 
cause of her husband’s peril. But she loved Marguerite, who had 
used to bring fruit and flowers to a little lame child she had lost, 
the dearest of her flock; and when she thought of that, and of her 
kind, familiar ways with the mall, she felt Blaisot had only acted 
rightly. She lighted a large peat fire, to be in readiness for them, 
should they return, and strove to pray and hope for the best. But 
every few minutes she would creep from the cabin-door, and make 
her way through the blinding wind and mist to the edge of the 
precipice, to listen, or gaze down the giddy path, lighted up by the 
fitful gleams of lightning. At length, a long, shrill whistle,, through 
one of the lulls in the storm, made her heart beat wildly; it was re- 
newed, and she recognized Blaisot’s whistle. She flew back to the 
hut, falling over the children in her happiness; and by the time the 
party arrived, the fire was blazing cheerily on the hearth, and the 
few woollen clothes and blankets possessed by the fisherman’s fam- 
ily were hanging, warm and dry for their use. 

There was a rude out-house belonging to the cabin, and here 
Barnscliffe and Ihe two men remained, while Blaisot’s wife removed 
Marguerite’s dripping clothes, and wrapped her up warmly in their 
own woolen garments, with many a kind word of rejoicing at her 
safety, and apology for the coarseness of the things that the “ little 
-queen ” condescended to put on. 

She formed a strange picture when Earnscliffe re-entered; her del- 
icate figure swathed in this uncouth gear, seated close to the flick- 
ering fire, and her long, wet hair hanging to the ground over her 
shoulders. Her first thought was for him. 

“You must require warmth and rest, too!” she cried. “Let 
Blaisot take me back to Kersaint; and when I am gone, you can 
make yourself comfortable here for the night. ’ ’ 

“To Kersaint!” replied Philip. “It is impossible for you to 
think of leaving shelter again to-night. I will make my way on at 
once, and tell your father that you are safe.” 

Marguerite shook her head. ‘ ‘ He will believe nothing until he 
sees me, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ I can not delay another minute while he is 
in suspense.” And turning to Blaisot, she addressed him in Breton. 
At first he was irresolute in his replies; but Marguerite implored 
with such earnestness that the wife came quickly over to her side. 


19G 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFPE. 


She thought of her own agony if one of their hardy imps was miss- 
ing among the rocks, and felt for the poor invalid father. So 
Blaisot at length consented to start for Kersaint at once. 

“ But I am afraid I can not walk,” said Marguerite. 

” I should think not,” returned the gabarier. ‘‘ Wife, bring my 
two strongest nets.” 

They were brought, and soon formed into a kind of litter, upon 
which Marguerite was placed — the two men preparing to carry her 
bet ween them. Then she turned to Earnscliffe, but with downcast 
eyes — her manner had quite altered to him now — and bade him 
good- night. 

“ I am coming with you,” he answered. ” I am already warm, 
and nearly dry, and shall be better for walking.” 

She did not attempt to argue with him; and after bidding the 
fisher’s wife a kind farewell, they again set out. The storm was 
now ^completely over; only an occasional could flitted across the 
deep blue above, and the stars were fast appearing. Already the 
angry roar of the waves was softening into their usual pleasant 
voice; already the wet herbage sent a sweet fragrance round, and 
the night insects were skimming through the air. For in so short a 
time can Nature forget the wildest of her storms, and return to her 
own placid smile: while one half-hour of the conflict of human 
passion leaves traces on the heart of a man that a life-time is unable 
to efface. 

They proceeded in silence, Earnscliffe lingering somewhat behind 
the others, and striving to bring into clearer shape the visions which 
still thronged bewilderingly through his brain. At first the recol- 
lection of the storm — of the peril — the nearness to eternity — of the 
rescue of his own life — was dominant. The bravest man who ever 
lived must feel the horror of sudden destruction when he has es- 
caped it, and then recoils from Death as he had never done when 
standing with him face to face. And Earnscliffe thanked God that 
had not called him, amidst the unatoned sins of his youth, into 
His awful presence! But soon other thoughts arose. The passion 
which he had strengthened in the moment of coming death, was 
only hushed for a short space now; and Earnscliffe reflected long 
and bitterly upon all into which that day had betrayed him 

He had avowed his marriage, and afterward his love— his love for 
Marguerite, a poor, innocent child who had been committed to his 
care: he had spoken words to her that no woman’s heart could ever 
forget; he had strained her to his breast in the strong embrace of 
death; and, more than all, he had won from her own lips the secret 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


197 


of her love for him — and a cold shadow fell across Earnscliffe at 
these thoughts. He had tasted of that fruit whose flavor is like no 
other; he had just entered into that golden land which had been the 
longing desire of his life; and now — like a mother who gaze^ upon 
the face of the first-born son she had so yearned for, but to see him 
die— the hope had become darkness at its moment of consummation. 
Marguerite was lost to him forever! 

The future lay before him in its cold, dull reality. To-morrow he 
should disclose to her father both his marriage and his madness in 
speaking'to her of love when a certain death seemed before them— 
for, as a man of honor, he could not shrink from this; Mr. St. 
John must know exactly to what extent his child was compromised; 
another day and he would have left Kersaint; another, and Mar- 
guerite would be among the things of the past; another, and he 
would return to his old life, his old pleasures, his old associates, and 
be again as he was before he knew her; and so on for life. His 
thankfulness for his safety was darkened. In the despairing thought 
that he must lose hei\ he forgot all the other prospects that life still 
held forth for him; he forgot his unfitness for death; and, with the 
impatience under disappointment which from his boyhood had 
characterized him, he clinched his hands together as he walked, and 
muttered, “ Would God that I had died with her!” 

And still the sky grew brighter, stars more clear, the freshened 
grass more sweet; and Nature seemed to mock his real living an- 
guish with the calmness of her eternally reviving and unconscious 
beauty. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

It had been a fearful evening for Mr. St. John. Although ig- 
norant of the full peril in which his child was placed, and striving 
to hope that she and Philip were under shelter at the gabarier’s- hut, 
his parental love had yet conjured up ceaseless visions of evil which 
no reasoning could dispel; and as the night wore on, and still he 
received no tidings of Marguerite, the suspense grew almost beyond 
endurance. Powerless to act, or even to learn the worst, the poor 
invalid could only place himself by the window, watching the prog- 
ress of the storm, and praying that each burst of thunder might be 
the last, while his usually pale cheek flushed deeper and deeper in 
the fever of anxiety, and his clasped hands became cold and clam- 
my as death. 

Manon would fain have consoled him, but her apprehensions were 


198 


PHILIP EAK2srSCLIFFE. 


to the full as dark as his own; when she attempted to speak, her 
voice was thick and choked, and she sat somewhat apart from her 
master, holding her crucifix, and praying to all the saints for Mar- 
guerite’s safety. At length, unable, like Mr. St. John, to bear the 
uncertainty in quiet anguish, she bethought herself of making prep- 
arations for them when they should return, lighted fires in the bed- 
rooms, heated water, and even laid out supper in readiness. The 
action took her from her own thoughts, and she became more hope- 
ful over her employment. But still the father remained in his old 
place, his face turned toward the darkness without, and his ear 
strained to detect the earliest sound of his child’s arrival. 

Suddenly Bello, who throughout the evening had been wander- 
ing about the room, occasionally licking his master’s hand, and 
looking up in his face in token of his mute sympathy, gave one of 
his low, joyous barks. 

She is here!” exclaimed Manon, rushing to the door. ‘‘ Bello 
would not bark so for a stranger.” 

Mr. St. John rose to his feet, but he could only walk half across 
the room— the yet uncertain happiness, the longing to behold her 
safe, seemed to overpower him, and render his limbs powerless. 
What if it should not be Marguerite? what if it should be some 
messenger with dread tidings of his child? In another moment, 
however, he heard her voice calling, Where is he? where is he?” 
Then came the well-known sound of her light footsteps — she was in 
the room— and he held her in his arms. 

Philip held aloof during that rapturous moment of meeting, and 
the boatman, who had followed to the door of the library to speak to 
Mr. St. John, drew his hard hand across his eyes as he watched 
them, and thought that he was well rewarded for periling his own 
life. It was some time before either spoke; then Marguerite, in a 
few hurried words, told her father how they had been surrounded 
by the tide, how Mr. Earnscliffe had preserved her until his own 
strength failed, and how the gabarier had finally succored them. 

Where is he?” said Mr. St. John, for the first time remember- 
ing anything but her. ‘ ‘ Let me thank Mr. Earnscliffe for what he 
has done.” 

Philip advanced, his heart reproaching him as he received the 
thanks of Marguerite’s father, and felt the earnest pressure of his 
hand. Would he press his hand to-morrow? 

” But you are still in your wet things,” continued Mr. St. John: 
” Manon must, take you at once to your room, where you will find 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIPFE. 


199 


a fire, and dry elothes. You, my child, seem better provided foi\ 
How did you come by this strange apparel?” 

jMargaerite told him of their reception by Blaisot’s wife; and theu 
Mr. St. John turned to the gabarier, and, shaking his rough hand, 
thanked him warmly for his services. Neither of the boatmen, 
however, would receive reward from Marguerite’s father. It was 
part of their Breton character not to be paid for what they had done 
by a friend. But this scruple did not extend to the stranger, and 
they left the house each enriched with a present from Earnscliffe 
that would make their households wealthy for the remainder of the 
year. 

Manon insisted upon carrying off her young lady at once to bed; 
Mr. St. John was so worn out by the excitement and suspense that 
he had experienced that he soon retired also; and Earnscliffe felt 
lelieved that, for this evening at least, there was no room for expla- 
nation. Marguerite’s manner with him was so altered in the last 
few hours, that he felt it would be impossible for her father to see 
them together without remarking it. She was constrained, almost 
distant, but her cheeks flushed, and her eyes fell to the ground if 
they met his — the very sound of his voice made her change color. 
And Earnscliffe felt that the scene among the caves, and the subse- 
quent terror for his life, had deepened all her former love into pas- 
sion — dawning indistinct as yet, but which would grow with every 
hour of further intercourse. Certainly she knew he was married, 
but what was that to her — so ignorant of the world and its opinions? 
how frail a barrier to stay in its course the master passion of our 
nature! And Mr. St. John would see this, and from Earnscliffe’s 
lips must learn that he was married; that, as a married man, he had 
declared his love, and, far worse, won the guileless heart of his 
child! He took a hasty supper alone, and then retired to rest, but 
he could not sleep for hours. Worn out though he was by bodily 
fatigue, the emotions of the mind overcame all inclination for sleep; 
and he dreaded the morrow and the disclosures it might bring, more 
than he had done the waves which had threatened him with instant 
death. In persons of his temperament, the moral is seldom equal to 
the physical courage; and the idea of forfeiting forever the good 
opinion of Mr. St. John was a pain to Earnscliffe of which those 
who knew him as a mere man of the world could not have con- 
ceived the extent — it even outbalanced, for a time, his grief for the 
approaching parting with Marguerite which he felt was inevitable. 

At length, toward morning, he fell into an uneasy sleep, from 
which he awoke with a start when the early sunlight was streaming 


200 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


through the window. He had been dreaming over again the perils 
of the past day — the booming thunders, the eddying waters! and it 
seemed to him that, while he escaped himself, he had left Marguerite 
to perish; and that Mr. St. John, pale and ghastly, now stood be- 
side his bed, demanding his child, and sajdng, in a hollow tone, 

You have lost her — lost her — body and soul!” 

The cold sweat stood upon his forehead when he awoke, and he 
arose at once, glad to exchange the dreams of the night for the day 
realities, painful though they might be. He opened the window, 
and the sweet air blew softly into the room. Everything out-of- 
doors was radiant in dew and sunshine, the sea once more unrippled; 
and Philip was reminded of that, first morning after his arrival at 
Kersaint, when he had listened to Marguerite’s young voice under 
his window. But now the tender green had become abounding ver- 
dure, and the scarcely open buds were full and gorgeous fiowers. 
Like the progress of their own love, the changing, uncertain spring 
had deepened into the glowing maturity of summer. After he had 
dressed, he remained long standing at the open window, and in deep 
thought, when suddenly a fiuttering knock came at the bedroom 
door. Somewhat startled, he went to open it, and saw Marguerite, 
in a white morning wrapper, and her face extremely pale. He 
knew that her father was worse. 

“He is very ill,” she said, with trembling lips. “ He has had a 
violent fit of coughing, and broken a blood-vessel. What am I to 
do?” 

Philip followed her without speaking a word, and at the door of 
Mr. St. John’s room they were met by Manon. Her features had 
an awe-struck expression, but still she had not lost her presence of 
mind. 

“Will you start immediately for N , monsieur,” she whis- 

pered to Philip, “ and inquire for Doctor Thibault? Bruno is not 
here, or I should have sent him at once. And make the doctor re- 
turn with you — there is not a moment to lose. ” 

“ When was he taken ill?” 

“ Half an hour ago the bell leading into my room was rung sud- 
denly, and on coming to my master, I found him speechless, and his 
pillows deluged in blood. It was the excitement of yesterday.” 

Philip glanced through the open door, and saw Mr. St. John, livid 
and exhausted, supported upon pillows, with his eyes closed; and 
Marguerite, who was again at his side, wiping the dark streaks ten- 
derly from his lips, her face perfectly white, and her large eyes di- 
lated with terror. He started, almost with a feeling of guilt, at the 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIFPE. 


201 


sight; and, after some more minute directions from Manon, stole 
quietly down- stairs, and was soon in the open air on his way to 

N . He forgot the weakness of his own still exhausted frame 

and stiffened limbs in his self-accusing wish to be of service to the 
man whom he thought that he had injured; and in a wonderful 
short time had reached the town and found out Dr. Thibault’s house. 

The . doctor had attended Mr. St. John during the preceding 
autumn, and he listened to Philip’s account of the present seizure 
with an expression of grave concern, then he shook his head. 

“ Surely you do not mean that there is no hope?" Philip ex, 
claimed, hastily. 

“ I can not, of course, pronounce till I have seen him; but I have 
little hopes myself. He is too feeble to bear up against any loss of 
blood; and, from your account, one of the larger vessels must be 
ruptured. I have long known that any sudden emotion might be 
fatal to him in his precarious state." 

The doctor prepared some medicines, and started at once on his 
pony for Kersaint, leaving Philip to follow on foot. He ran the 
greater part of the distance : and, when he reached the Manoir, 
Thibault was still in the sick-room, and Marguerite — too agonized 
for tears— was crouching outside her father’s door, waiting to hear 
his verdict as he came out. 

She looked up at Philip when she heard his step, but her expres- 
sion did not change. He took her hand, and the cold, relaxed 
fingers lay lifeless in his own. This new, great sorrow had swal- 
lowed up every other feeling, and now that her father was in dan- 
ger, he seemed again as entirely her whole world as in the time be- 
fore she ever knew Philip Earnscliffe. The minutes dragged on 
like hours while they waited thus. At length there was a subdued 
movement in the sick chamber, and then the doctor noiselessly 
opened the door and came out. In his solemn face Earnscliffe read 
all — Mr. St. John was dying. 

Marguerite sprung to her feet, and seized the doctor’s hands, but 
she could not speak; something in his expression made the words 
choke wildly in her throat. 

“ Tell me," she tried to articulate — ** tell me—" 

"My child I" said Thibault, kindly (he, too, had a little daugh- 
ter), " God is good, and you must pray to Him." 

She knew his meaning, but strove not to believe it. " What must 
I do?" she cried, her speech returning in her terror — " what must I 
do to save him? — tell me, doctor, and I will bless you, and pray for 
you all my life. Oh, save him, save him!" 


202 


PHILIP EAEJ^^SCLIFPE. 


His eyes softened! but he was a plain countryman, and he never 
adopted the cruel system of saying “ Hope, ” when there is no 
hope. “My child,” he answered, turning away his face, “your 
father must be kept perfectly quiet, the slightest agitation might 
terminate his life at once. If you remain with him, you must com- 
mand your own feelings, and not permit him to speak; give him 
every two hours a spoonful of the medicine I have left and keep 
his chamber as cool as possible. I will return in the afternoon to 
see how he is going on. ’ ’ 

She asked no more questions. She had now something to do for 
her father, to watch over him, to restrain her own sorrow; and with- 
out a word, she turned away, and re-entered the room. 

“ Can I speak to you, monsieur?” said Thibault, when she was 
gone. 

Philip led the way down-stairs, and they entered the library, 
whose air of cheerful home comfort seemed, like a mockery now. 
The doctor closed the door softly, seated himself in Mr. St. John’s 
easy-chair, and took a pinch of snuff. He was a good and kind- 
hearted man naturally; but he thought it part of his professional 
duty to keep up a dignified calmness which he did not feel on these 
occasions. 

“ Is he dying?” said Philip abruptly. 

“Monsieur!” returned the doctor, startled by his tone, and the 
strange look in his face. 

He repeated the question. Thibault paused. “ Well,” he re- 
sumed slowly, “I may as well tell you the truth at once. My 
patient is in the last stage of exhaustion; indeed, I may say, dying. 
His frame is already debilitated, and he has broken one of the 
largest vessels of the lungs. All the art in Europe could not save 
him.” 

“ Will he last long?” 

“That is uncertain: I really could not give an exact opinion. 
These things vary so much. When the blood proceeds from one of 
the greater arteries, you see, the chances are—’ ’ 

But Philip rose, and paced impatiently up and down the room, 
and the doctor was silenced in his intended disquisition. 

“ What is to become of her?” broke from Earnscliffeat last; and, 
as though speaking to himself, “ Who is to take her?” 

All the doctor’s silly pomposity vanished in a moment. 

“ Ah," monsieur!” he cried, “it is I who was going to ask the 
question. They have no friends here, and all the French relations 
of the mother’s side, I am told, are dead. But as you are a friend, 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


203 


and a compatriot, I thought you would know what relations they 
had in England; or perhaps monsieur himself is connected with the 
family?” 

Philip did not hear the question. He was now standing at the 
window, gazing out into the garden, without knowing what he saw. 
He felt that Marguerite, orphaned and alone, would be thrown as it 
were upon his protection; and the consciousness of his own weak- 
ness made him shrink from the trust. 

“ Doctor,” he said, turning round suddenly, ” do you believe that 
Mr. St. John is in immediate danger?” 

As immediate as a man can be to be alive at all. I do not ex- 
pect him to live another forty-eight hours — his strength is ebbing 
fast; and, even if he should have no' return of the cough, he will 
die.” 

There was another silence; then Earnscliffe resumed — “You are 
married, sir, I believe?” 

“ I am. I have a daughter rather younger than Mademoiselle St. 
John. Would you think it well for my wife to come over here?” 

Philip knew enough of Marguerite’s nature to feel that she would 
rather have no stranger to comfort her in her affliction, and replied 
that “ he had not exactly meant that; but that Dr. Thibault being a 
married man, he would be able to afford Marguerite the protection 
she required, until some of her own relations were written to; for 
himself, he regretted that it would be necessary for him at once to 
leave Kersaint, as — ’ ’ Here he hesitated, and Dr. Thibauult gath- 
ered that the young Englishman wished as much as possible to be 
rid of any responsibility in the matter. And, considering how lo^g 
he had been a guest of the dying man, the inference did not give 
the worthy doctor too high an opinion of English gratitude. He 
little thought the pain his own resolution cost to Eamscliffe. 

‘ ‘ Are you acquainted with the address of a cousin of Mr. St. 
John’s in London?” Philip inquired. “ They have frequently 
spoken of him to me, but I have forgotten even his name.” 

The doctor was also ignorant upon this point; they agreed, how- 
ever, that Eamscliffe should write a letter at once, saying that Mr. 
St. John was dying, and urging some of the relations to come over 
to his daughter immediately, and that he should learn the address 
from Marguerite later in the day. The doctor having promised to 
call in the afternoon, then took his leave. 

“A true Englishman!” he soliloquized, as he trotted quickly 
home on his pony. “ With his haughty manners and his cold 
heart, no more warmed by that girl’s loveliness than if he were an 


204 . 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


iceberg. He must leave the house, forsooth, in his sanctity of virtue, 
the moment the father is dead, and hand over the poor child to my 
respectable protection! Yet there is no lack of fire in his face, 
either— mais ils sont tons comme celd — ces Anglais — hali!'^ 

Earnscliffe was left alone for some hours. He wrote the letter, 
and afterward remained unoccupied, standing at the library window. 
The actual presence of death had never so weighed upon him be- 
fore. To meet it in peril and excitement was nothing compared 
with this slow, lingering approach to eternity which one inmate of 
the house was now treading alone. And, besides this, a painful 
feeling of self-accusation was ever at Earnscliffe’s heart, which 
made him shrink from approaching the dying man. Not the con- 
sciousness that he had in some measure been the cause of the pre- 
vious day’s catastrophe — in that he was innocent of intention — but 
the feeling that he had betrayed a solemn trust; and that to the last 
he should meet Mr. St. John’s eye in an acted character. Slight 
looks and words were recalled which convinced him that her father 
had not been unmindful of his preference for Marguerite, nor un- 
willing that it should be so; and he shuddered at the idea of him 
dying in the belief that his child might soon have another protector. 

'' And all this w’ould never have been had I acted honestly from 
the commencement!” was Philip’s bitter thought. 

The hours passed by, and toward noon Marguerite entered the 
library. She looked quite changed, and her childish face had be- 
come like that (»f a W'Oman; but she was calm, and did not weep. 

How is your father, Marguerite?” 

“ He is asleep; and Manon wished me to leave him, and take food, 
that I might be more fit for w^atching afterw^ard. Have you break- 
fasted?” 

‘‘Oh! do not think of me; I require nothing.” 

“ Manon made some coffee an hour ago; I will bring it to you. ” 
She left the room with the same unnatural composure, and shortly 
returned with a tray and some breakfast. Philip poured her out a 
cup of coffee, and she drank it, and then strove to eat; but she 
could not swallow a morsel. 

“ You eat, ’ ’ she said. “lam not hungry. ’ ’ 

Philip took some coffee, and then resumed his place at the win- 
dow. Marguerite seated herself on a low footstool, and laid her 
hand wearily against the arm of her father’s chair; still, she never 
wept — she was*only stunned and bewildered as yet— the agony of 
grief was to come. 


PHILIP EAKN-SCLIFEE. 


205 


AYill you not come to the open window, my poor child? The 
air will refresh you . ” 

Her lips trembled a little at his expression — ^it recalled her father 
— but she only hid her face. “Ho; I am better here,” she an- 
swered. 

Then Philip approached, and seated himself beside her. “ I have 
been writing a letter,” he said, gently, “ which I should like to send 
by to-day’s post. It is to your father’s cousin, telling him of his 
illness, and asking him to come to you. Will you give me his ad- 
dress?” 

An indescribable look of anguish crossed her face at his words. 
She understood why he had written, and it realized her position to 
her; already she was being given over to strangers! 

“Ah, Mr. Earnscliffe!” she cried, wildly. “Do npt write to 
him; they will take me from Kersaint, where we have always been 
together, and I shall not be near him when — when — ” “ he is dead,” 
she would have added, but she could not utter that word. She 
raised her hand to her heart, where the old sharp pain had arisen, 
and looked piteously at Earnscliffe. “Do not send it yet; wait 
another day, until we know all. God is merciful! He can not leave 
me so utterly alone. Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe! He can not take my 
father from me yet! I have no one in the world but him.” After 
a pause she continued — “ I should like to hear all the doctor said to 
you — his exact opinion, word for word.” 

With averted face, Earnscliffe tried to break the dread truth. He 
did not deceive her; he rather strove to soften her grief, and make 
lier weep; and, at length, he succeeded. Speaking of her father, he 
had dwelt much upon the excellence and beauty of his character, 
and of his fitness for death; and then added, when she turned away 
almost impatiently from that terrible word — death — 

“ But think of his gain. Marguerite, from a life of constant pain 
and sickness to" the glorious life of eternity, and the joy of again be- 
holding your mother.” 

Then the tears were unloosed; and she wept long and passionate- 
ly, as a child of her age should weep, in natural sorrow. 

“ I am selfish to grieve so for myself,” she said, at length; “ but 
you can never know all that my father has been to me. What love 
can I ever find like his? so forgiving to all my faults — so gentle; he 
has never once been angry with me in my whole life, and I have 
often been forgetful of him. Only yesterday, the last day, Mr. 
Earnscliffe— I was away from him so many hours, and thinking of 


206 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE. 


my own happiness, while his anxiety for me has caused this dread- 
ful illness—” 

She could get no further for her tears, and it was a difficult task 
for Philip to comfort her, with so much tenderness in his heart to> 
be obliged to content himself with the usual commonplaces of con- 
dolence! He began speaking again of her relations in England. 

“ I know my father’s wishes,” she replied, mournfully. “ Last 
autumn, when he was so ill, he told me I was to live with my 
cousin, in London. And I have never seen any of them; they will 
be perfect strangers to me. I would much rather remain at Ker- 
saint, alone with Manon in these rooms, where I have spent all my 
happy life with my father.” 

“ But you will act as he thought best. Marguerite?” 

Yes; and, after all, it will not matter much. What will life be 
anywhere, with no one to love or to care for me?” 

Had she so soon forgotten her love for Philip? or was there, min' 
gled with her passionate grief for her father, a recollection that that 
too was over — a thing that could never be? 

Think of my life. Marguerite! How few have any to really 
love them! But you are young, and may form new attachments.” 

She turned, and looked at him very full. 

“ Do you believe what you are saying, Mr. Earnsclitfe?” 

He hesitated. I did not mean that a parent’s place can ever be 
tilled in a child’s heart; but there are ties even more near!” 

“Philip!” 

“ Do not look at me so, child — I am nothing to you. When we 
separate it will be forever, and your only thoughts of me must be 
pitying ones. ’ ’ 

He tried to give his voice a firm tone, but it betrayed him in its> 
quivering accents, and the hand which held hers grew very cold. 

“Philip!” she replied, with a grave composure, that contrasted 
strangely with her usual manner, ‘ ‘ you think me a child, you treat 
me as such, and I know that you misjudge me. You say rightly, 
that none can ever supply my father’s place — none ever will. I 
may like my relations, but nothing more. Even if — I — had mar- 
ried you ” — she brought these words out with difficulty, yet still 
with no change of color — “ I should never have forgotten him; and 
it is not likely now, when I shall be forever alone in the world. 
But why should you tell me that all I said to you yesterday was 
nothing? that I shall easily form new attachments? Mr. Earns- 
cliffe, my father is dying, I speak to you solemnly, and in my great 
sorrow, and I am not ashamed to say it now— I shall never forget 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


207 


you. It is not in my nature to love many times, and when I do 
love, it will go with me to my grave. You are married, you have 
told me that I can he nothing to you, but you have made me love 
you — you have made me confess it, and I shall never forget you!” 

She neither blushed nor trembled; but spoke all this in a fixed, 
gloomy tone, as though thoroughly convinced of the truth of her 
own assertion. Philip scarce trusted himself to reply. Even as 
she reassured him of her love, something in her manner made him 
feel how entirely they were divided; and the words, “you have 
made me love you — you have made me confess it,” sounded like a 
fresh condemnation to him. By what right had he imbittered this 
fair young life, over which the hand of God was laid so heavily? 
How could he attempt to offer consolation? 

“ Marguerite, can you forgive me?” he murmured. 

“Forgive you?” she answered, gently; “you have done no 
wrong; like me, you are sorrowful and alone — my poor Philip. It 
will be my fate, like my mother's, to die young, and not be very 
happy in my life — but it is through no fault of yours. And now, ’ ’ 
she added, rising to her feet, “ I will return to my father, I will 
leave him no more.” 

“ And I?” hesitated Earnscliffe. “Will you not let me be with 
you in your watching?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, you may come tow-ard evening, for Manon then will 
require a little rest, but now I would rather be alone.” 

She left him, and an hour or two afterward the doctor arrived. 
He found his patient quiet, without pain, and composed, but sink- 
ing fast; he showed no inclination to speak; and as long as Mar- 
guerite was by him, and her arm round his neck, looked happy. 

“ He may last till to-morrow,” said Thibault to Philip, when he 
came down again, “ not longer. I shall call in very early in the 
morning, however, but it will be to see the child. I can do no 
more for him.” 

Philip told him of Marguerite’s wish about the letter, and they 
agreed that one day’s delay could make no difference. She would 
have no reason for not sending it on the morrow. 

“ I do not fear any further rupture on the lungs, ’ ’ added the doc- 
tor. “ So, if he shows a disposition to talk to his child, it need not 
be checked. Poor little creature! she will hear few words enough 
from him again in this world.” 

And Philip wrung the doctor’s hand when he spoke so feelingly 
of Marguerite, in a manner that made him think he had somewhat 
misjudged the cold young Englishman that morning. 


208 


PHILIP EAENSCLIFFE. 


The day wore away without much change in the sufferer. 
Toward night, however, he spoke more, and his mind began evi- 
dently to wander. His voice was soft and low as ever, his eye calm 
— but his ideas were becoming confused. At one time he thought 
he was speaking to his wife — that she was dying, and he watching 
over her; then he recurred abruptly to his own state — to his anxiety 
of the previous day — to Marguerite, and who would take her when 
he was gone? — and then alluded to Earnscliffe, in a manner con- 
nected with her, which sent a thrill through the conscious heart of 
one of the listeners. Manon had gone to rest herself, that she might 
be better able for her duties when they were required; and Philip 
and Marguerite watched together during the early part of the night. 
She would not leave her father for a minute; she felt no fatigue in 
her constrained position, and her hand never wearied of lifting the 
cooling draught to his lips, or wiping the fast-gathering damps upon 
his forehead. She seemed suddenly to have acquired the strength 
and composure of a woman. But Philip knew that the last scene 
would be a different one to this, and trembled for her powers of en- 
during it. 

About two o’clock Mr. St. John fell asleep, and remained so for 
more than an hour. When he woke the watchers were still in their 
place; but Manon had returned, and forced Marguerite to swallow 
a cup of tea, and change her position, which she had not hitherto 
done for fear of disturbing her father. The gray light of early 
morning was already stealing through the closed curtains, giving a 
ghastly hue to the lamp by the bedside, and revealing the ashy feat- 
ures of the dying man, and those, scarcely more life like, of his 
child. At the bottom of the bed, perfectly motionless, stood the old 
hound. They had vainly attempted to keep him from the room the 
previous day; but, as he was so still and silent, at length permitted 
him to remain. His great brown eyes never turned from his mas- 
ter’s face for one second; and their expression of wistful sorrow and 
knowledge of the truth, was almost human in its intensity. When 
Mr. St. John woke he seemed quite calm and conscious; and his 
voice had resumed so much of its old strength that Marguerite’s 
heart beat with a wild hope that he was better. But Manon ’s face 
grew more solemn, and she glanced at Philip. 

“ Still beside me, my little one; you must be worn out!” 

” No, father; I am not tired. I was so glad to see you sleep.” 

” It has restored me, darling. I can tell you all I wish now. Put 
your arm round me — so. Child — I am leaving you. ’ ’ 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFPE. 


209 


“ No—no, father! You must not leave me — I have no one hut 
you. Do not leave me in this great world alone, father!” 

“ Where is Mr. Earnscliffe?” 

Philip advanced to the bed, his face bloodless at the thought of 
what the dying man might say. 

“ I am here, sir.” 

“ Give me your hand. Why, it is colder than mine — and clammy. 
Ah! you feel for my child. I have not known you long; but I am 
sure that you have a warm heart and high principles. Will you be 
her friend when I am gone? She is worthy of you.” 

These words, and the fervent clasp smote Philip to the quick. 

“I will do my best,” he faltered — “I will endeavor to per- 
form — ’ ' 

Mr. St. John smiled faintly. He already thought that Philip 
loved his daughter; and his deep emotion — his hesitating accents — 
now confirmed this belief. 

I can die contented,” he said, softly; a happy expression steal- 
ing over his face. “ Now, little^ one, all I have to say must be to 
you. Nay,” he interrupted himself, as his eye fell upon another 
weeping figure, “ Manon first.” 

Manon took his weak, outstretched hand, and kissed it with the 
reverence she might have shown to a saint. 

“Oh, master! forgive me all my faults,” she said, through her 
fast-falling tears. 

“ You have had none, poor Manon! You were faithful to my 
Lilia; you have been faithful to her child and to me. God bless you, 
my friend, and reward you as you deserve.” 

Then he turned to Marguerite. She bent down over him, and he 
spoke in low, loving whispers, so that only she could hear; while 
Philip turned aside, not to intrude, even by looking, on the last 
earthly communion of these two beings, who had so long been all in 
all to each other. At length a sudden exclamation from Manon 
made him look round, and he saw a change on Mr. St. John’s face. 
His color had returned, and his eyes were brighter. 

“ Draw aside the curtains!” he exclaimed. “ Open the window, 
and let me feel the air once more. ’ ’ 

Manon obeyed him; and the fresh wind, laden with a thousand 
early scents, stole in, while a golden beam from the rising sun fell 
full across the bed. 

“ She died at this hour,” murmured Mr. St. John; “ and I am 
going to her — God remember thee, my child!” 

“ Father, do not leave me!” cried Marguerite, as his clasp slight- 


210 


PHILIP EARIh’SCLIFPE. 


ly relaxed, and all the reality of death overwhelmed her. “ Father, 
stay with your little one— father — father!” 

But the ear which had never turned from her faintest wish be- 
fore, was becoming dull, even to her voice; and, though he yet 
strove to answer, his lips moved only with an inarticulate sound. 

“ And he dies without the sacraments!” said Manon. 

Poor Manon! She knew not that the single ray of God’s sun- 
shine brought more of his presence about the dying man than all 
the priests in Christendom could have done. 

” Kiss me, darling — once more.” 

These w^ere his last words. As her lips still pressed upon his 
cheek, liis eyes brightened, strangely — then fixed; and, without 
another sound, he expired. 

Marguerite started back in sudden terror, then looked fearfully 
round at her companions, then at her faiher’s face. She seized his 
hand, it was already cold and damp, the chiseled lips had fallen; 
and with a cry — so long, so intense in its anguish, that neither of 
the hearers ever forgot the sound again — she sunk heavily and sense- 
less upon the ground. 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

At breakfast in his own house, in a quiet, dingy street neighbor- 
ing on Russell Square, Mr. Danby sat alone at his morning meal, his 
wife and step -daughter being persons too long accustomed to fash- 
ionable life to conform to his early habits. 

The room was dark, the furniture old. It was the room in the 
house especially dedicated to Mr. Danby, and where no visitors were 
ever admitted; consequently, it was not thought necessary to intro- 
duce any of the light and modern furniture which, during the last 
few years, had found its way into most of the other rooms, and Mr. 
Danby rather liked this arrangement than otherwise. Perhaps it 
allowed him occasionally to dream — when glancing at the stiff- 
backed chairs and horse-hair sofa — that he was still in his former 
life of tranquil widowerhood; while the fanciful patterns and Frenchi- 
fied ornaments in the drawing-room perpetually reminded him of 
his fanciful wife and her Frenchified daughter. However this 
might be, he always looked upon his breakfast as the happiest meal 
ot the twenty-four hours; and on the morning in question — about 
four days after the event described in the last chapter — was eating 
his toast, and drinking his third cup of tea, with great appearance 


PHILIP EAKl^SCLIFPE. 


211 


of repose and cheerfulness. It was a sultry July day. The house, 
however, being on the shady side of the street, no sun ever found 
its way into the rooms; so, through the open windows the inmates 
only partook of the glare from the opposite houses, and the stuffi- 
ness common to small London streets during the dog-days. 

Mr. Danby had never lived out of London since his boyhood, and 
perceived nothing of this. True, when he occasionally went down 
into the country, and breathed the fresh air, and looked up to the 
blue sky, something in his heart made him feel that he liked it all, 
and might have been happier had he never left it; but the feeling 
quickly passed, and he always returned with pleasure to the asso- 
ciates, and habits, and old city faces, for which nothing can com- 
pensate a thorough Londoner, as he was. He had been in business 
the greater part of his life, business of various kinds, and none of 
which had answered remarkably well, although he had never actu- 
ally failed. Danby was honest and industrious, but his nature was 
not one likely to do much in the world. He had neither sufficient 
courage for speculation, nor clear-sighted prudence enough, when it 
was really required; and, to sum up all, he had been “ unfortunate. 
Some one had always stepped in before him, just at the very mo- 
ment when a fortune was to be made; and if he did undertake any 
larger risks, there was sure to be some unlooked-for depression in 
the very article he had speculated upon. In short, as all men who 
have the knack of not getting on say of themselves, he had been 
“unfortunate.” 

Mr. St. John was his first cousin on the mother’s side, and, as the 
reader may remember, was induced about the time of his own mar- 
riage to embark almost the whole of his small capital in one of 
Danby’ s larger undertakings. “It was to make them both rich 
men, there was no risk whatever, it was unlike all his former spec- 
ulations” — such were the arguments which persuaded Mr. St. 
John, who was like a child in business, to give over his money to his 
cousin. As usual it turned out “ unfortunately.” There were other 
persons in the transaction besides Danby, equally unsuccessful, but 
not equally honest, and at the end of six months, without in the least 
understanding how, Mr. St. John discovered that he had been swin- 
dled out of the whole of his money. He talked faintly at first about 
taking legal measures for its recovery, but soon abandoned the idea, 
and finally concluded that it was one of the usual risks of trade, 
and that poor Gilbert was more to be pitied than himself. As it 
happened, Danby was not involved to such a very great extent in 
the speculation — the failure at least did not ruin him — but the 


212 


PHILIP EAEISrSCLIPPE. 


thought of having caused his cousin’s poverty remained with him 
for life, and he could never hear his name mentioned without a. cer- 
tain pang of self-reproach. No ill-feeling toward Danby had 
rankled for a second in Mr. St. John’s heart. They continued at 
intervals to correspond, and when his health began to fail, he ap- 
pointed his cousin in his will as Marguerite’s guardian in the event 
of his own death, and acquainted him at the same time that he had 
done so. 

At that period Danby was still a widower. He had married quite 
early in life; but his first wife died within a twelvemonth after her 
marriage; and for thirty years the idea of taking to himself a second 
never occurred to him. When, at length, he had realized sufficient 
money to live upon in small independence, he left business entirely, 
and bought a house in Tavistock Street, where he lived comfortably 
enough, with an old housekeeper to attend upon him, until about 
two yeai*s from the present time, wffien his good — or some might 
say his evil — genius threw him in the way of his present wife and 
her charming daughter. 

It was Mr. Danby’s practice, every summer, to go down to the 
sea-side for a few weeks, Margate or Ramsgate being usually his 
choice, as cheerful and accessible from London, away from which he 
was never happy for many days together. Just as his housekeeper, 
one fine afternoon, was packing her master’s portmanteau, in readi- 
ness to start for Ramsgate the following morning, one of his friends 
came in, and, in a fatal hour, persuaded Danby to change his plans, 
and accompany him to Boulogne. This friend was an old school- 
mate, and they had entered business about the same time. He had, 
however, been just as successful as Danby was the reverse, and old 
Mortimer, the stock-broker, was now looked upon as one of the most 
fortunate men on ’Change. He was rather younger than Danby, 
and still in business, although he had long since realized a large 
fortune. 

Come to Boulong, Danby. There is twice the amusement there 
to what there is at Ramsgate, and the best prawns I ever eat.” 

“ But I don’t know the tongue; I was never among Frenchmen 
in my life. ’ ’ 

“No more you will be now. French isn’t spoken at Boulong. 
The shops are English; the visitors are English; prices are English; 
and you have all the advantages of living in England, with the va- 
riety of being able to say that you are in a foreign country. ’ ’ 

So the next morning, attired in that amphibious costume of large 
check shooting- coats, short nankeen trousers, dust- colored shoes, and 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFFE. 


213 


wide-awake hats, which elderly cockneys deem most congenial to 
sea-side life, the two friends departed in a Boulogne steamer. 

Danby liked the change immensely; and for the first fortnight he 
and his friend were constantly to be seen, linked arm in arm, walk- 
ing about the sands of a morning, or up and down the pier of an 
evening — the arrival of the English boats and looking out for new- 
comers forming one of their principal amusements. At the end of 
this time, however, the stock- broker, much to the regret of both, 
was recalled to town on business that would involve some delay, 
and Danby was forced to remain alone during the three weeks he 
meant yet to stay abroad, 

“ And I will just tell you what, Danby,” said old Mortimer, as 
they walked together, late in the evening, on the pier, for the last 
time— “ you steer clear of the widow when I am gone.” 

” What widow?” said Danby, innocently 

‘ ‘ Why, Mrs. Burgh, or De Burgh, or whatever she calls herself, 
of course! She has had her eye on both of us from the day we en- 
tered the boarding-house. She first found out I was richest, I sup 
pose — they are the devil for their instinct in that, these widows; but 
when she saw it wouldn’t do, turned her attention to you; and, as 
sure as fate, they want to get you between them.” 

“ To get me! and what, in heaven’s name, do they want to do 
with me?” replied Danby, aghast. 

“ Why, to marry you, of course! Tut, man! you need not be so 
unconscious of what widows mean when they lay themselves out 
to please men like you and me. Why, you get quite red with pleas- 
ure, as it is. when Mrs. Burgh singles you out to talk to before every 
one else at dinner. I believe the girl was after me at first, till she 
saw I wasn’t the kind for them, and that disreputable-looking Ital- 
ian (who cheats young Greenwood every evening at ecarte) began 
to pay her attention. But the mother is after you — and for herself, 
too. ■ ’ 

And I hope she will like me when she gets me,” added poor 
Danby, with a little dry laugh at the intended pleasantry. 

“ Now, Danby,” rejoined his friend, “ don’t you go and be such 
a con — founded idiot (I beg your pardon) as to have anything to do 
with those women. If a man of your age, or mine, marries at all, 
he’s a fool; but, if I ever did commit such an act of insanity — which 
I never shall — at least I would have something fresh and tolerably 
innocent, a farmer’s daughter from the country, or some article of 
that kind — something, at all events, that should know rather less 
of this wicked world than I do myself. But one of these widows, 


214 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


or their daughters — it’s all one— who have been liere and there — one 
time in one capital of Europe, then in another— offered up and re- 
fused in every watering-place in England and out of it, and carry- 
ing on about a dozen such games a season as Miss Georgy is now 
doing with that mustachioed rascal at the boarding-house — I tell you 
what, my friend; I would quite as soon, or a good deal sooner, mar- 
ry one of those fisher-girls who are carrying home their baskets 
yonder On the beach. One can, at least, feel pretty certain what 
their lives have been hitherto, and I defy mortal man to say as much 
for the others. ’ ’ 

As Mr. Danby had a good memory, and Mrs. de Burgh afterward 
became his wife, it is possible that his friend’s words recurred to 
him with more distinctness than was agreeable in future days. 
However, for the present, he only answered — “ He was quite safe 
from all the widows in creation; but, he must add, he thought Mor- 
timer’s strictures unjust regarding Mrs. de Burgh— a woman of 
good family and reserved manners, and who had always, from her 
own account, mixed in the wry first society.” 

‘‘Then what was she doing with her daughter in a Boulong 
boarding-house?” answered old Mortimer. 

He went off early the next morning, and poor Danby was left 
alone to withstand the attractions of his new friends. 

Mrs. de Burgh was the widow of an officer — of Irish police, it^as 
believed— but she dropped the particular corps to which he belonged, 
and only spoke of him as the late Major de Burgh. It was also 
whispered that the gallant Irishman during his life had been known 
under the name of Bruff, and that his widow, considering that title 
plebeian, had changed into Burgh, and subsequently De Burgh. 
These were, however, merely malicious whispers, to which so many 
others were added as made one think Mrs. de Burgh must, on the 
whole, be a very injured woman. She was now about five-and- 
forty, still good-looking, tall, slight, and unmistakably lady -like — 
for, whatever else was false, she was a woman of decent family her- 
self, and her appearance was refined. She was rather die-away, 
and considerably affected; but Danby, who was little accustomed 
to female society, thought her very elegant, and was quite dazzled 
at the number of “Sirs,” and “Lords,” not to mention a few 
“ Dukes,” whom she spoke of as intimate acquaintances. A thor- 
ough knowledge of the peerage, and an unblushing application of it, 
is always a characteristic of the class to which Mrs. de Burgh be- 
longed.- 

Miss de Burgh, commonly called Georgy, was twenty years 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


215 


younger than her mother, and consequently already at an age at 
which the first timidity of girlhood may be considered over. She 
was tall, high-colored, with hazel eyes, black curls, and white teeth, 
and was of that style usually termed by middle-aged half-pa5"s at 
watering-places, “a doosed fine girl.” Of Georgy’s inner woman 
it would be more difficult to speak with certainty than of her black 
hair and high color, a remarkable instability being, indeed, the 
leading feature of her character. In Switzerland, for instance, she 
sketched, rode, crossed torrents, climbed mountains, or was fast, to 
any extent which suited the college men who might be “ reading ” 

at Interlachen. At Heidelberg, the Kron-Prinz von H might 

have thought her the incarnation of German sentimentality as she 
talke of ewtge Liehe with him under the lindens by moonlight 
(Georgy spoke all languages well), and smiled as placidly as a Ger- 
man maiden should while he smoked in her face. And, if thrown 
accidentally with English clergymen, she could d disposition be 
high-church, cloth embroidering, architectural, mediaeval, catholic; 
or low-church, world adjuring, district visiting, tract-dispensing. 
Papist- hating. With the very young of the opposite sex she was 
ordinarily amusing, rather dashing, and not sparing of piquant an- 
ecdotes — boys like that style: with the middle-aged she was giddy, 
perhaps, but guileless; said the strangest things without knowing it, 
and, if her mamma reproved her, would show as much childish 
shame as could well be expected from a young lady of five-and- 
twenty summers — most of them spent on the Continent — and who 
was perfectly well read in French novels. 

With her personal attractions, her mutability of character, and 
her mother’s aristocratic blood, it may seem surprising that this 
young creature should still have continued Miss Georgy after nine 
years of charming womanhood. That it was not her own fault, how- 
ever, must be admitted, and also that instances are not rare in which 
the harder sex remain long untouched by the prospect of matri- 
monial bliss so readily and liberally held out to them. 

On the present occasion, having soon seen that Mr. Mortimer was 
a knowing old card — Georgy could be very slangy — and no go, she 
was deep in a flirtation with a handsome, good-for-nothing Italian 
(brother to one of the first singers in the world, by whom he was 
allowed a hundred a year to live out of England) just to keep her 
hand in. Young Greenwood, the only other Englishman in the 
boarding-house, was beneath her game for marriage; and Hanby 
she handed over to mamma. They believed him richer than he 
really was; and, as the widow and her daughter were always ex- 


216 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


tremely well-dressed and had such high connections, Danby also 
took it into his head that their means were not small. 

He managed to keep clear of them for some days after Mortimer 
left. His friend’s words had impressed him unpleasantly, and he 
had no deliberate intention whatever, of committing such folly as a 
second marriage. He was perfectly comfortable in his snug, old- 
fashioned way in Tavistock Street, his housekeeper kept everything 
in order, and gave him well-dressed meals at regular hours; he had 
his friends to dine with him occasionally, and dined with them in. 
return; what more could he want? But “ Vliomme propose.'' 

Four weeks after the friends parted, on the pier, the stock-broker 
received the following letter: 

“ Dear Mortimer, — I should have written to you sooner, but 
my time has been so taken up since you left that I have not had an 
hour to myself Excursions, walks, boating-parties, picnics, have 
been making quite a young man of me— and an old fool, you would 
add, at my time of life. Well, the fact is, my friend, Mrs. de 
Burgh’s daughter (you remember Miss Georgy), is naturally fond of 
these kind of amusements; but her mother, with the reserve peculiar 
to our countrywomen, does not choose her to enter into them, even 
under her own chaperonage, unless escorted by some gentleman, in 
whom she can place confidence as more than a mere acquaintance; 
and this circumstance alone has led me into habits so unlike my 
usual quiet ones. They (I mean Mrs. and Miss de Burgh) are only 
waiting here a few days longer, until the arrival of Lord and Lady 
Windham, their cousins, whom they will accompany to Paris; and 
about the same time you may expect to see me in London. It is 
already past the time at which I should be dressed for a donkey ex- 
hibition to some distant ruins; so I must conclude. 

“ And I am ever, dear Mortimer, your faithful friend, 

“Gilbert Danby* 

“John Mortimer, Esq.’’ 

“ Well!” said Mortimer to himself, as he finished the letter, “ I 
did not really think my old friend would have turned out such a 
beastly idiot— at sixty years of age! ‘ Reserve ’ — ‘ confidence ’ — 
‘ more than mere acquaintance’ — faugh! Well, if the man is still 
to be saved, it sha’n’t be my fault if he marries either of them.” 
And, at considerable inconvenience, Mortimer left town that very 
afternoon, arriving at Boulogne by the evening packet. He walked 
in high dudgeon up the pier, a garden, from the hotel he had always 

frequented before he tried that boarding-house, carrying his 

carpet-bag behind him, and when he was about half way^p, whom 
should he see but Danby, with the widow on one arm and the 
daughter on the other, looking very red and foolish, and the ladies 
remarkably cheerful. Danby looked more red and foolish still when 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


217 


lie recognized his friend; while the widow simpered, and looked 
conscious, in a manner that made poor Mortimer absolutely sick. 
His manner was none of the pleasantest when they all stopped for 
greeting. 

Quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Mortimer.” 

Quite so, ma’am, to all parties;” and he glanced at poor Dan- 
by, who felt like a detected school-boy. 

“ I hope you will stop longer this time than you did before.” 

“ That all depends upon circumstances. I mean to stop until I 
take my friend back again with me.” 

Miss Georgy laughed; and, being in a child-like mood, remarked. 

That he might have to escort a larger party than he thought 
for.” 

“Indeed, Miss Bruff! Who is to form the addition, if you 
please?” 

Mortimer had heard the story about the change of name, and, be- 
ing in a vicious temper, threw this in accidentally, as a chance shot 
that might tell upon some one. Mrs. de Burgh turned red, and 
clung to Dan by’ s arm, while she whispered, somewhat hysterically, 
in his ear. 

“ Mortimer!” said he somewhat deprecatingly. 

“Sir!” 

“ You seem unaware — that is, it might be as well — ” His voice 
got quite gurgly. 

“ Sir!” repeated Mortimer, looking straight before him in a way 
not at all calculated to help his friend out. 

Several persons had by this time turned round to stare at the iras- 
cible-looking, middle aged gentleman, and the well-known widow 
and daughter. The garden rested the back of his hand upon his 
mouth, and little French boys cried, “My God! Adolphe! regard 
them the English;” while Danby wished himself fathoms deep in 
the sea. 

“ It might be as well,” he went on, in a low tone, “ to let you 
know, as my oldest friend, the peculiar and delicate ” — Mortimer 
smiled politely — “circumstances of the case. My happiness may 
appear to you sudden; but, the fact is, I am in a fe\Y days to have 
the happiness — I would say honor— of becoming, or rather of Mrs. 
de Burgh becoming, my wife.” 

Mortimer listened quite quietly to the end. 

“ Gar^ong!” 

“ Yes, sare.” 

“ When does the next boat start for England?” 


218 


PHILIP EAENSCLIFPE. 


“ De next boat!” The garden looked at his watch. ” Tide high 
in fifty minutes — in one hour, sare.” 

“ Very good. Then carryback my carpet-bag to the landing, and 
wait until I return; I shall go by her.” 

“Yes, sare,” utterly amazed, although accustomed to Britons. 
“ Will monsieur not step to the hotel? he has plenty of time.” 

“ And can look after himself, sir, thank you: which is more than 
every man of sixty can do,” and he glanced at Danby, who seemed 
actually sinking with shame; for one or two idlers from the board- 
ing-house had now joined the knot of lookers-on. 

“ My dear Mortimer, surely you will stay to witness — ” 

“ I thank you, Danby. The time is gone by when farces interest 
me, or executions either. I wish you all the happiness you deserve^ 
and your amiable future wife also, not forgetting her youthful 
daughter — your daughter, I should rather say — ha! ha! excuse my 
good spirits; and when the honeymoon is over, if you can spare an 
hour, I shall be still happy to see you in Portland Place, and hear 
how you are going on. Pray do not let me detain you; I have just 
time for a cutlet.” 

And with a gay nod, but really boiling over with rage, Mortimer 
passed on, leaving the bridegroom-elect in much the same state of 
feeling as a man who has received the last good wishes of his rela- 
tions, before being hanged. 

However, Danby had fairly done it. His friend returned the same 
evening to Folkstone : and in a few days afterward the well-born 
widow became his wife. That he was not long in bitterly regretting 
his marriage, it is needless to say. What man of sixty ever found 
his happiness increased by marrying again, especially if his second 
wife be a widow, with a very grown up daughter? 

The new Mrs. Danby and Georgy were mightily disappointed 
when they reached London, and saw the old-fashioned, hum-drum 
style of their future home. Nor was Danby less surprised on dis- 
covering the extremely small means on which these ladies had 
hitherto contrived to keep up a good appearance. And mutual re- 
criminations ensued. 

To overturn all his habits, and sneer at his dowdy frieuds, and in- 
troduce a thousand innovations into his household, were the first 
endeavors of the ladies. But Danby was no fool in general — al- 
though in one particular instance he so egregiously showed himself 
one — and he would neither give up his house, his friends nor his 
economical habits. He would have been as glad, after a few months 
of step-paternity, as most people, to get Georgy married. It would 


219 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFFE. 

he one less, at all events. But he could not see how this was likely 
to be effected by following out the same false, flashy system which 
had signally failed for ten years already. So he resolutely set his 
face against balls and parties in his own house, and said — “ If Georgy 
wanted to get a husband she had much more chance of doing so by 
stopping decently at home than by going to Hanover Square balls, 
and trying to hang on to the disreputable skirts of grand society,” 
For he soon saw how far his wife’s acquaintance with titled people 
was genuine; and that, while the majority of her noble^ friends were 
myths, the one or two broken-down lords and tawdry “ Lady Some- 
bodies,” whom she had managed to get acquainted with at foreign 
watering-places, and hunted up again in London, were people whose 
character had long since thrown them out of their own rank of life 
in England. 

Danby had now, however, been married for two years, and he 
- had found out, like many wiser men before him, that his greatest 
chance of peace lay in allowing his womankind, as far as possible, 
to have their own way. They might go to their parties, and occa- 
sionally have their “ reunions at home, at which he seldom ap- 
peared, so long as they kept tolerably within bounds in money; and 
he dined with his old cronies, and occasionally had them to dine 
with him in return, generally selecting those days on which Mrs. 
Danby and her daughter were engaged elsewhere. Mortimer, when 
his first irritation was over, had become just as friendly as ever; in- 
deed, it rather afforded that old bachelor pleasure than otherwise, to 
get Danby by himself to dinner, and listen, with the grim cheerful- 
ness of a friend, to accounts of his domestic happiness. And as 
every year made Georgy more alive to the necessity of keeping on 
good terms with all rich, single men, Mortimer usually received a 
very civil reception in Tavistock Street, in spite of that unpleasant 
manner of his on the pier at Boulogne. t 


CHAPTER XXyill. 

Mr. Danby had just breakfasted as the postman came up to the 
door; and in another minute he^as reading Earnscliffe’s letter. 

Percy St. John had been his last natural tie in the world, and he 
was greatly shocked at hearing so unexpectedly of his death. The 
recollection of their youth, of his cousin’s unworldly nature — his 
ready forgiveness toward himself— the kindly Utters he had always 
written in his varied difficulties — overcame him; and Danby covered 


220 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPEE. 


liis face with his hands, thankful that he received the tidings alone, 
with no wife or step-daughter to witness his emotion. After a time 
he took up the letter again, and read it to the end. “ You are his 
daughter’s guardian, and will, doubtless, at once receive her into 
your care,” were the last words. 

Keceive her! Yes, poor child, that will I!” said Danby, half 
aloud. “ Would God it were a better home to bring her to. If I 
had not married again, she would have come like a child to me in 
my old age, for Percy St. John’s daughter must have something of 
his nature in her, and I could have loved her. Now, she will have 
Miss Georgy for a compaanion, and become like her, perhaps! 
Well, I must hope for the best. I wonder how Mrs. Danby will 
take it!” 

He rose, and paced up and down the room for pearly an hour; 
old and bitter remembrances thronging fast upon his mind, joined 
to his musings on the young creature, whom death had just thrown 
upon his care, and was so deep in thought, that he quite started 
when the door flew open, and Georgy, not in the neatest of morning 
costume, entered the room. She considered a dressing-gown, untidy 
slippers, and hair pinned up tightly on her temples, quite attention 
enough for her step-father. 

“ Morning, pa.” 

“ Good-morning, my dear. Is your mamma dressed?” 

“ I really could not say,” seating herself. “ Coffee cold, loast 
tough; just ring the bell, pa!” 

He obeyed mechanically; and as he did so, she saw his face. 
” Gracious! how pale you are. Are you ill? perhaps you eat too 
much melon yesterday. Hot coifee and toast!” — to the old servant 
who entered; “ and are there no rolls?” 

” No, there ain’t, miss,” was the reply; “ the boy forgot them.” 

” Stupid wretch!” returned Georgy, glancing fiercely at the old 
woman, and leaving it doubtful to whom the title was applied. 
” Everything is forgotten in this house! Make some toast, at once. ’ ’ 
And she stretched back in her chair, and patting her knife up and 
down on her plate, discontentedly, forgot all about her step-father’s 
pale face. 

He continued to walk about the ro^m, without speaking; and after 
a few minutes Mrs. Danby entered. The greeting between herself 
and her daughter Was not much more affectionate than had beeh 
that of the step-father. 

“ No breakfast ready!” said the lady of the house, peevishly, as 
she seated herself, without even looking at her husband. 


PHILIP EAEilSCLIFPE. 


221 


‘'I have ordered some, hours ago,” Georgy answered, “but, as 
usual, the rolls are forgotten, and now, I suppose the coffee, too; 
ring the bell again, pa.” 

“ My dear, Wilkins has not had time to get it ready; besides, she 
does not like to be hurried.” 

Georgy tossed her head. “When I have servants, they must 
learn what /like,” she said. 

On another occasion, Danby would have retorted that Georgy 
must wait till she had servants : however, he wished now to keep 
them both in good humor, and rang the bell again. Wilkins came 
up immediately with half-done toast and bad coffee, and remarked, 
“she had had no time to get the things better.” It was singular 
what clear, strong coffee, and hot rolls always graced the master’s 
early breakfast-table, when compared with those which appeared at 
the late meal of the ladies. 

“She is intolerable,” said Mrs. Danby, almost before the door 
was closed. “ I shall have some change in the establishment soon.’^ 

“ There is likely to be one,” interrupted Danby, stopping short, 
and catching the opening. ‘ ' I have received a letter this morning 
telling me of my cousin St. John’s death; and as his young daugh- 
ter is left my ward, she wu'll for the future find a home with me.” 

Like all nervous people, when Danby did bring anything out 
with an effort, he spoke quick, and told it abruptly. 

“Oh!” exclaimed both ladies. “Has she money?” added the 
eldest. 

Danby winced. It was the one sore point on his conscience. 

“ Hot much; but I suppose the sale of the old chateau where they 
live will realize something. However,” he added firmly, “ she will 
want for nothing while I live. ” 

His wife and daughter exchanged looks; and Mrs. Danby hated 
Marguerite on the spot. 

“ He died quite suddenly,” Danby went on. “ Poor little child! 
how desolate she must be in that lonely place!” 

“Oh! she is only a child then?” cried Georgy; and the vision of 
a brat of five, who could live in the kitchen with Wilkins, flashed 
across her. 

Danby made one of those elaborate calculations by which some 
persons find it easy to arrive at dates; starting with his own age, 
deducting ten, adding thirty, taking away something else, and 
finally concluding that Percy’s child must be about sixteen. 
“ And, indeed,” he continued, “ in one of his last letters, poor fel- 
low I he said she was growing up, and was very like her mother. 


222 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


If she is so, and has, anything of his features too, she must indeed 
be lovely; for I have heard that his wife was a very beautiful wom- 
an, and I never saw a more perfect faoe than Percy’s.” 

There was an ominous pause. 

“And you mean this Miss St. John is to live with you?” Mrs. 
Danby resumed. 

“Undoubtedly,” replied Danby. “Her home will be with me 
so long as she remains unmarried, and I have a home to offer her. ’ ’ 

His face had just the expression it always assumed when his wife 
tried to persuade him to dismiss his old servant; and she knew that 
he would be firm. 

“ It might have been as well to have mentioned all this sooner,” 
she said, peevishly. “ If I had known you w'ere going to have 
cousins and people coming to live with you — ” 

“ Yes, ma’am?” 

“Yes, Mr. Danby, I say it would have been as well to mention 
these things before you married me.” 

“I don’t suppose it would have made any great difference in 
your dej^ision, Mrs. Danby. ’ ' He was roused at last at her cold 
selfishness. “Besides, the question scarcely involves yourself at 
all. I intend to take one fatherless girl of sixteen into my house, 
and to treat her — God help me! — as though she were my own child. 
You need not trouble yourself about her, unless your own feelings 
incline you to do so; and the more she keeps at home with me, and 
the less she goes out into your society the better. ’ ’ 

“ Very well, sir, I am glad I understand the footing on which 
she is to be placed,” said Mrs. Danby, sharply. “ And as you will 
love her like your own child, doubtless you will introduce her to 
your own circle of friends. When does the young person arrive?” 

“ Her father is not yet buried,” Danby returned, quietly; “ so 1 
can not stay. Perhaps you would like -to see this letter, Georgy? 
you are fond of distinguished people,” he added, turning to her; 
for Georgy did not feel at all the same amount of spite as her moth- 
er on the subject, and was looking rather amused at the small fight. 
“ After all,’’ she thought, “ the girl won’t interfere with me, and, 
as she is half French, can help me in my dress, and keep up my 
accent.” Danby saw that she was smiling, and thought he would 
try to win her over to his side. 

“'Would you like to have the autograph at the bottom of the let- 
ter?” 

“ Philip Earnscliffe!” exclaimed Georgy, in astonishment; “ w^hat, 
the Philip Earnscliffe?” 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


223 


“ I should suppose so; the name is not a common one.'’ 

She read the letter gi*eedi]y. 

“ Goodness! and how intimate he seems I My excellent friend ’ 
— ‘ poor little Marguerite!’ How on earth did they get to know 
him!” She was much -too aufait of all the scandal of London life 
not to be perfectly aufait of Philip’s private histoiy; and, indeed, 
had seen him once or twice in the theater, and thought him ‘ ‘ a 
dear, interesting creature.” Miss Georgy looked quite excited. 

I am sure I don’t know how they became acquainted,” said her 
step-father; ” but I do know that any man of education or genius 
would be certain to take pleasure in St. John’s society.” 

” And he must be actually staying in the house, ma? Perhaps 
he will come over with her. How I should like to know him!” 

Mrs. Hanby felt mollified at the idea of the St. Johns knowing 
Philip Earnscliffe, though she was too dignified 1o show it at first. 
However, she made no more unpleasant speeches for the present, 
and even condescended to say ” she wished the child well, and if 
they had friends in their own rank of life, that made a great differ- 
ence.” 

” I shall not be in time for his funeral,” Danby went on, ” even 
if I start to-day. Letters are so long coming from that remote part 
of France; but I must go over at once for the poor girl!” 

“Why?” said Mrs. Danby. She had been for some time medi- 
tating a trip to Brighton for her own health, and foresaw that 
Danby’s journey to Brittany would just swallow up the money she 
meant to spend on carriages and doctors by the sea-side. ‘ ‘ Why, 
a1 once, Mr. Danby? Indeed, if you can not be in time for your 
cousin’s funeral, I do not see the object of your going at all. It is 
not likely Miss St. John would wish to leave the home where she 
has always lived immediately, and she must have some friends in 
the neighborhood to take care of her. At all events, you had better 
write first; express your sorrow, and so on, and take time to think 
over it. But act as you like. You know how the sea disagrees 
with you; and, indeed, that a long sea voyage is almost dangerous 
for you to undertake with your full habit of body. Act for your- 
self.” • 

The last hint was not thrown out without its effect upon Danby. 
The sea really disagreed extremely with him, and if it were at all 
stormy, made him ill for weeks afterward; and he had often heard 
from Mr. St. John how long and rough a passage it generally was 
from Southampton to St. Malo. So he thought, and wavered, and 


224 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


hesitated, between kindness for liis little cousin, and his own dread 
of seasickness, until his wife saw how it would end.- 

“ Think over it, Mr. Danby,” she said, mildly; “ think over it. 
Write' the letter, you know; and then afterward, if you think it 
really necessary to go for Miss St. John, and that the voyage will 
not hurt you, you can do so.” 

“Well, it may be better to write, perhaps,” said Danby; “it 
would be different if she had no English friends; but Mr. Earns- 
cliffe appears so really interested in her — ” 

“ Yes,” interrupted Georgy. “ And why can’t Philip Earnscliffe 
bring her over to England, when she does come? You might pro- 
pose it, pa; it would be a good introduction to him.” 

Danby promised to do so; and that afternoon wrote a letter to 
Earnscliffe, inclosing a few lines to Marguerite. They were kind 
and simple, and told her that, from henceforth, his home should be 
hers; and that, as far as jDossible, he would try to make up to her 
for her great loss. But Danby said nothing about her coming im- 
mediately, neither did he make any allusion to crossing the Channel 
himself. Mrs. Danby ’s hints about seasickness, and his full habit, 
had done their work; and the following week they all went down to 
Brighton, where Miss Georgy made and improved the acquaintance 
of a very long- coated young Anglican divine; and Mrs. Danby, who 
since her marriage had thought it necessary to be an inv alid, became 
a convert to homeopathy, and an extremely soft-handed, black- 
whiskered apostle of that faith. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

To all the dreadful minutiae of death. Marguerite remained, hap- 
pily, insensible. She was very ill for many days, and when she 
could once more mention his name, her father was lying in the 

cemetery of X . Although her illness was chiefly the effect of 

her sudden grief, the excitement and exposure to cold and wet, on 
the day among the Morgane caves, had produced actual fever; and 
for some time the good doctor thought very seriously of her case. 
Philip, who would otherwise have left the Manoir at once anS taken 

up his quarters at X , could not find the resolution to do so now 

that Marguerite was ill, and remained on from day to day — his own 
pale and altered face bearing token of the suffering through which 
he passed. . 

Earnscliffe had had many trials already; disappointment, sense of 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


225 


injustice, wounded pride; but this was his first sorrow. In his nat 
ure was a store of deep tenderness that had never yet been called 
into action, and now, for the first time in his life, he utterly forprot 
himself in his anxiety for another. He wandered silentlj’' about the 
house; he took no food, except when Manon pressed it upon him; 
and when Marguerite slept, or during the time that she was insensi- 
ble to all external objects, he would steal into her room and watch 
over her with almost a woman’s tenderness, bathe her burning fore- 
head, admit the cool air to her bed, and perform a thousand offices 
which all Manon ’s honest love could not have supplied. And Mar- 
guerite, unconscious though she was, knew the gentle touch, and 
received the water or medicine more willingly from Earnscliffe’s 
hand than from the nurse. 

One night she was delirious, and in her delirium called upon 
Philip’s name repeatedly. From her lately acquired habit what she 
said was in English; but Manon could still detect the name, and her 
eyes stole searchingly to Earnscliffe’s face as she listened. He 
eould not become paler than he already was; but his lips quivered 
as he bent over. Marguerite, and heard again her innocent love for 
himself told in the vague, unconscious language of delirium, ever 
mingled with her father’s name and a dull remembrance of her 
recent los^s. 

‘‘ He loves me, dear father— Philip loves me. I shall be his little 
wife— ^lio, he is married — that can never be. Lady Clara — he told 
me all, I must not love himo But then, the storm — the waves— 
father, I could not help itl death was coming, and I told him. It is 
OYCY: now — it is all over; he has left, and I shall remain with you. 
I ^nay love you, father;” and she tried to raise her hands as though 
to clasp his neck. OhI not so pale — those dark, dark streaks, 
father: you are leaving me — this is death. The waves — Philip, save 
J?ie— save us both!” and then the words came more wildly still, 
\in1il he could not distinguish what she said. 

Worn out by her long watching, Manon at length slept heavily in 
the large chair by the bedside; and throughout the remainder of 
ifhat night Philip attended to her alone. Again and again had he to 
disten to words such as those she had just uttered; hear his own 
name whispered with meek reproaches ‘ ‘ that he had made her love 
him, ’ ’ then watch her parched lips writhe in sudden terror, as the 
recollection of the storm, or of her father’s death returned, and 
vainly strive to calm her incoherent cries for help. In all she had a 
strange sense of his presence. If for a moment he quitted her side, 
her face turned beseechingly in the direction whither he moved, and 


226 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


she could extend her helpless hands toward him. It seemed ta 
soothe her when he leaned over her and whispered gentle words^ 
although she could not have understood their meaning; and when 
toward morning, worn out by fever and delirium, she sunk to sleep 
— the sleep which saved her life— Philip’s arm supported her, and 
her flushed face was still upturned to his. 

Her long hair had become unloosened during the night, and hung^ 
in damp and heavy masses upon her shoulders; one hand lay help- 
lessly on the coverlid of the bed, the other was thrown upward over 
the pillow in the child- like attitude of sleep. She looked so pure, so 
perfectly innocent as she lay thus, that tears rose into Philip’s eyes,, 
more like those of a father for his child than of a lover for a mis- 
tress. He was not a man easily moved to tears, but Marguerite had 
stolen into the inmost depths of his heart. He loved her as no 
human being can love but once; and as he bent over her through 
the silent hours of this night alone, the dim starlight that stole 
through the, open window his onl}? witness, the best emotions of 
Earnscliffe’s nature were stirred. The sinless child whose head was 
pillowed upon his breast seemed to him as a symbol of everything 
pure and perfect; and as he bent down over her unconscious face, 
thoughts returnedTo him that he had not known for years. 

He thought of his early childhood, when he too was innocent, 
and his young mother had hung lovingly over his little bed ; he re- 
called her sweet face as she kissed him for the night; and thought 
with a pang, that no pure kiss had ever blessed him since. He re- 
membered her love for his father— how they used to sit together 
by the evening fire, hand clasped in hand, watching him as: he 
played at their feet — and felt that such a life would to him too hi3>ye 
been happiness. “ If she had been my wife,” he added. And :at 
that moment Marguerite stirred slightly in her sleep, and murmui^ed 
^‘Philip!” 

When she awoke at length, after many hours’ deep sleep, th^- 
fever had left her. All that now remained was extreme w^eakness> 
and in few days she was w’^ell enough for Manon to lift her to ^ 
couch by the window, w^here she might breathe the fresh air. A^s 
yet, she had spoken very little. Her mind was quite clear; and,' 
Manon could see that she was fully aware of her father’s death, for 
she never alluded to him, nor to his absence from her room. She 
was conscious of that, and of everything; but we are so mercifully 
organized that our own bodily weakness takes away half the poign- 
ancy from sorrow; and as Marguerite, feeble and helpless, lay think- 
ing of her father^jJ death, it was more with a feeling of thankful- 


PHILIP EAR^ISCLIFFE. 


227 


ness that he had gone to rest, and a wish that she too might follow 
him, than with anything of grief for his loss. 

From the time of her improvement, Philip never entered her 
room; and on the second day after the fever left her he departed 

for N , where he took up his quarters at the rustic country inn. 

If Marguerite missed his presence, she made no allusion to him; she 
asked no questions, she show(;d no interest when Manon accidentally 
mentioned his name— every kind of feeling seemed numbed within 
her. But about a week after her crisis, on a warm, soft August 
morning, her nurse had carried her to the couch by the open win- 
dow, and the sight of the old familiar garden without, and the feel- 
ing of the fragrant air laden with the sound of birds and insects, 
brought for the first time a look of life into her wan face. 

“ Support me higher, Manon, I wish to see my white rose.” It 
had been her father’s favorite rose, from which every summer 
morning she brought him a blossom. How fresh it looks; t/iey are 
not withered. I should like some fiowers, I think.” 

'‘You have some already, 7na mie; but you were not well enough 
to look at them. See;” and Manon brought an exquisite bouquet, 
which stood in water upon the table. “ All fresh this morning.” 

A faint flush stole to the pale cheek. “ Give them to me. Ah! 
they are very sweet. ” She placed them in her bosom. “ Manon, 
>are you quite sure that I shall die?” 

“ Die! Ma mie, ma clierie ,why should you talk of dying? You 
have been very ill, but the fever has left you now; and the doctor 
said this morniqg that you will soon be as blooming as ever. ’ ’ 

Marguerite turned her face away, and was silent; but the nurse 
saw large tears stealing down her cheek, and she let her weep on, 
for Thibault said it would be good for her to shed tears. After a 
time she looked at Manon, and said — “ How worn you are, poor 
Manon! Y^'ou look as though you had never slept for weeks. Have 
you watched and nursed me all alone?” 

“ ISTot quite alone, darling. When you were very ill. Monsieur 
Earnscliffe ” (the trembling fingers clasped tightly round her flow- 
ers) — " Monsieur Earnscliffe would watch by you too, and during 
the worst night he never left you. Cepamre monsieur ! he looks 
as pale as you, ona mie ; but, then, he never had much color.” 

Marguerite was not pale now. The old bright flush came over 
her face when she heard that Philip had watched her in her illness, 
and, looking once more toward the sea, she said, softly, “ I am so 
glad that I shall live.” 

Poor Manon was delighted at these words, and at her improved 


228 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


looks. Ever since her master’s death she had been in hourly dread 
that her darling child was to be taken also; and now, in her sudden 
thankfulness, she almost forgot her late great sorrow. 

“ You will get strong, my child, quite strong. We will carry you 
to the terrace in a few days, and give you nourishing things, and 
make you so well and blooming — better even than you were before 
your illness;” and her honest face was all beaming v/ith happiness. 

See, there is monsieur on the terrace now. He told me he should 
remain awhile, when he gave me the flowers for you.” 

Remain? where is he then? has he left Kersaint?” 

Manon explained that he had gone to N , but came over every 

day to inquire for mademoiselle; and then she lifted Marguerite on 
the couch, so that she could see the terrace. The old soft expres- 
sion stole into her eyes as she watched Earnscliffe slowly pacing up 
and down, and the color lingered in her face. 

** I am well like this, dear Manon. If you have anything to do, 
you can leave me awhile. I shall be happy alone. ’ ’ 

Manon had much to do in her neglectd household; and seeing 
the little invalid so refreshed by the open air, she thought she might 
safely go down-stairs to her work. She returned every few minutes, 
but found Marguerite each time in the same position, and saying 
she was not tired yet.” In about half an hour, however, Earns- 
cliff.e finished his walk, and returned slowly toward the house. He 
did not think of Marguerite being up, and never looked toward her 
window, little knowing how anxiously her eyes were following 
him. When he was quite out of sight she called to Manon: “ I am 
weary of sitting up, the air feels so chilly, and the sky is cloudy — 
take me back to my bed.” And when she was placed there, she 
turned her face upon the pillow, and did not speak again for hours. 

That very morning, while Marguerite watched him, Earnsclitfe 
had taken his final resolution, to see her once more, when she had 
sufficient strength for the interview, and then quit her forever. No 
vain sophistry of staying to console her in her loneliness led him 
astray now. Her father had died asking him to be her friend, and, 
with the acknowledged feelings of both toward the other, the only 
way of fulfilling this request was to part from her at once. “ She 
is too young for the wound to be very deep,” he thought. Yet even 
as he did so, her earnest face rose before him as she said, '' I shall 
never change, I shall never forget you!” and — strange inconsistency 
of our nature — Earnscliffe felt a thrill of pleasure in disbelieving his 
own words. 

He had told the doctor that he was married, during Marguerite’s. 


PHILIP PARHSCLIFPE. 


229 


illness, thinking it right for her that their mutual position should be 
understood in the neighborhood; and something that he had either 
seen or guessed from Philip’s manner, made the kind-hearted 
Frenchman form conclusions not far from the truth; while he fully 
concurred in the propriety of Earnscliffe’s leaving Eersaint. They 
both agreed that it would be well for Marguerite to remain for sev- 
eral weeks, at least, in her old home, during which time Thibaull, 
and his wife could watch over her, before going to her English rela- 
tions. And, indeed, she was now so weak, that some time would 
be absolutely needful for her to recover sufficient strength for the 
journey. 

Mr. Danby’s letter arrived in due time, and Earnscliffe was not 
greatly prepossessed by its tenor. Although the note to Marguerite 
was kind, there was a constraint about it, and an absence of all ex- 
pressions of sympathy from the women of the family, which made, 
him augur ill for Marguerite’s happiness in her future home. The 
letter to Earnscliffe himself was plain and business-like. “ Mr., 
Danby regretted that he could not be in time for his cousin’s funeral; 
and also that circumstances ” — he did not mention what these, 
were — “ prevented him coming himself for Miss St. John; but that, 
as soon as she was able to travel, he hoped some of her friends, 
would accompany her to St. Malo, and he would meet her at South- 
ampton.” He then added that, in his unavoidable absence, he 
should be glad if Mr. Earnscliffe would read his late cousin’s will„ 
and make him acquainted with the contents. “ Through an agent 
in Paris he should arrange for the sale of the property of Eersaint; 
.and he remained Mr. Earnscliffe’s obedient Servant. 

Philip flung down the letter upon the table. He formed a worse 
opinion of its writer than was altogether just; and pictured to him- 
self Marguerite, after her free, unfettered life, and the sole compan- 
ionship of one so refined as her father, living in some close London 
street, and associating with the family of a retired tradesman. For 
Danby’ s hand was a clear, round text; the paper he employed blue * 
letter sheet; and the appearance of the whole epistle unlike any 
Philip had ever received in his life, with the exception of duns or 
communications from his book-seller, “ And I am unable to save 
her from these people,” he thought. Would God that I were 
free!” 

Marguerite gained strength daily now, and in another week Manon 
announced to Earnscliffe that she was well enough to see him. The 
old servant’s eyes had not been closed all this time; indeed, it was 
impossible for any one to have seen Philip under the circumstances 


230 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFPE. 


that she had done, without discovering his feelings toward Mar- 
guerite; and, ignorant as yet of his marriage, she fervently hoped 
that her darling might become his wife, and be spared the misery of 
having to live among strangers. Of herself she never thought. Of 
her loneliness, her poverty, when Marguerite should be gone — for 
she had no relations and had saved but little money — all this was 
nothing compared to Marguerite’s welfare. She had always been so 
completely treated as one of the family, that she felt herself actually 
one -of its members, not merely a hired servant, wdiom a death or a 
marriage could at any time throw upon the world — as was now the 
case. 

“ She will see you at once, monsieur; she is looking quite herself 
this morning. ” 

Philip had shrunk from the interview as long as was possible. 
Pesolving that it should be the last — he yet had not courage for the 
actual parting with the only being on earth whom he had ever 
really loved, and when Manon proposed that he should see the in- 
valid, had each day answered, ‘‘that he would rather wait until 
there was no risk of the excitement harming her.” But now he 
could delay no more. Marguerite herself wished to see him; and 
as he followed Manon through the long winding passages, Philip’s 
heart throbbed within him, as though he were some boy lover await- 
ing his mistress, rather than a man of the world wdio expected an 
interview with a girl of sixteen 1 

“ Voild Monsieur Philippe, ma mie!"' 

Marguerite was lying on a couch by the open window, dressed in 
deep mourning, which gave additional whiteness to her complexion; 
but at Philip’s name the blood rushed crimson into her face for a 
second, then retreated, and she felt her whole frame turn cold. 

‘ ‘ Marguerite ! — Monsieur ! ” 

Manon closed the door and left them, never doubting that when 
she returned they would be affianced lovers. There was a moment’s 
silence; then Philip threw himself upon his knees beside her, and 
kissed her hands. 

“You have suffered, 1113 " child — 3 ^ou are pale and changed.” 

“ Monsieur, he is gone.” 

“ Call me Philip, Marguerite. This is the last time we shall ever 
meet — you must not be cold with me now. ’ ’ 

“ The last time! Not!— not,” she faltered, “the ver}" last. Do 
not leave me 3 "et. Think of my utter loneliness without my father, ’ ’ 
her voice choked. “ Philip, think of his last w^ords to 3 ^ou!” 


PHILIP EARjq’SCLIFFE. 


231 


“ I have thought of them — day and night since the solemn mo- 
ment when they were spoken.” 

“Yet you leave me! And he asked you to be my friend. ” 

Philip released the little fluttering hand he held within his own, 
and then seated himself by her side. 

“Marguerite,” he said gravely, “ your words recall to me my 
own reproach. When your father spoke to me as he did, he was 
ignorant- of my marriage; he knew only my admiration — my feel- 
ings toward you— for that it was impossible for me to conceal; but 
he knew not the grave dishonor of which I had been guilty in con- 
cealing my marriage.” 

“ Dishonor! Oh, Philip, that is no word for you!” 

“ It expresses my conduct, and is therefore a fitting one. This 
dishonor — ” 

“ No, no,” she cried, eagerly. “ You had told me of your mar- 
riage before— before — ” 

“ Before I spoke to you of love— yes. But I loved you from the 
first hour that I met you. And while your innocence. Marguerite, 
rendered your misplaced love blameless, mine from the beginning 
was guilty. Nothing can exonerate me to myself, or lessen my own 
feelings of self-reproach: and the only way — a very poor one— in 
which I can carry out your father’s trust, is that on which I have 
resolved — to leave you at once and forever!” 

He said all this very fast and resolutely, and Marguerite’s eyes 
filled with heavy tears as she bent aside her head; then both were 
silent; Philip dared not trust himself to speak, scarcely to look at 
the sweet, sad profile turned away from him. A torrent of love was 
ready to burst from his lips, yet he must restrain it, and j-emember, 
now in her ho'ur of desolation, that it was dishonor for him even to 
think of love; so he sat moodily, his arms folded, and his lips com- 
pressed with their sternest expression. At length Marguerite 
reached her hand to some flowers Philip had sent her, which stood 
by her side, and rais ed them to her lips. 

“ I shall never care for them again when you are gone.” 

The mute appeal, the childish submission of her voice, were too 
much for Earnscliffe. He was on his knees, and his arm around 
her, in a second. “Oh, Marguerite! must I leave you?” 

He looked up at her — his dark eyes softening, and his cheek 
flushed with all the passion of his impulsive nature; never was his 
face so dangerously beautiful to Marguerite before. 

It is hard, Philip. I have loved no one else in the worfd but 
my father, who is gone from me, and you. Must we, indeed, part? 


232 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


Think what parting is? Long years of life — cold winter days — 
sweet, -warm summer; but not together! I can hardly bear to think 
of my life without you; it seems so long and objectless. If ” — she 
glanced at him timidly — “ I might be anything else to you — I know 
that I can never be your wife, but your companion, your friend — I 
should give no trouble. I would follow you — I w'ould care for you 
when you were tired of the great world, and you would be glad to 
return home to your poor little Marguerite — Philip, may I be this?” 
She laid her hand upon his arm, and leaned forward for his reply, 
until her hair rested upon his cheek. 

Had Marguerite been anything but what she was, Earnscliffe 
would never have passed through this fiery ordeal of temptation — 
for he was a man, and no faultless one. And somewhat lax as were 
his conventional principles, somewhat undefined his religion, it is 
doubtful if an abstract idea of right would have prevented him from 
making Marguerite his, and thus seeking to drown, in the love of 
her fresh nature, all the past disappointments of his life. But her 
innocence, her absolute and entire ignorance of the impoit, even, of 
her own words, was her shield; and a stronger one, with a man like 
Earnscliffe, than all the barriers with which society attempts to hem 
in the frail daughters of fashion. 

‘ ' Marguerite, ” he answ^ered, hoarsely, and as though with a 
strong effort over himself, “ some day, when you are older, you 
will look back upon this moment and pity me. You know not the 
torture your own words cause me: you know not — God forbid you 
ever should!— the temptation through which I am passing. Alone 
in the world, thirsting for love that I have never found, you offer 
me yours — yours in all the fullness of your youth and beauty; a 
very heaven is within my grasp, and I must reject it. And the 
after- recollection that I have acted with honor will ill efface the 
agony of this moment. You love me, as you can love, in your 
childish simplicity; you grieve to part from me; but you can not 
understand the bitter sorrow of my breast— the strength of my 
love.” And, burying his face in his hands, Philip sobbed aloud. 

Marguerite trembled at this strong emotion. As Philip said, she 
was too young to fathom the nature of his passion; and the sight of 
that strong, proud man weeping like a child filled her with a kind 
of terror. She turned her face upon the pillow, and waited, cold 
and silent, until the, paroxysm was passed. Then Earnscliffe uncov- 
ered his face, and rose slowl}-; he was deadly pale, and his features 
were set, almost hard, in their expression, 

' ‘ Margue rit e, good- bye. ’ ‘ 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIPPP. 


233 


“Not yet, Philip; I can not bear it At least you will write to 
me?” 

“No; no half measures. You are not to be mine — forget me.’' 
His voice was quite stern as he turned away from her. 

“ And you leave me in anger?” 

“ In anger! my life — my love.” 

He caught her in his arms, he pressed her to his breast, he kissed 
her hair — her brow — her lips, he called her by names never to be 
forgotten until Marguerite’s last pulse should beat. Then he tore 
himself away.” 

“ Philip, I shall die ” — every vestige of color had ebbed from her 
face, and her small hands were clinched tightly together — * I shall 
die without you. But if you think it ris’ht to leave me — go. Let 
me hear from you once — let me have one letter of yours to love and 
treasure — and I will be content. Promise me that.” 

He promised her. Again he held her to his bosom, and she threw 
her arms around his neck, She told him she would never love any 
other but him; that, distant, she would pray for him. She said a 
hundred things which, from any lips but hers, might yet have made 
Earnscliffe swerve. Then gently she quitted him. 

“ Leave me, Philip; I am stronger now—^leave me!” 

He turned, and obeyed her without a word. She saw him leave 
the room, heard his hasty step as he descenaed the stairs, then the 
heavy house door open and shut after him, heard his step still in 
the court-yard, then it gi-ew fainter and fainter, and was gone. And 
the sickening reality of her desolation overcame her. 

“ Philip, you have .reft me! 

Had he heard that tone — had he seen the anguish of her young 
face, the hopeless misery in which she sunk back upon the couch, 
white, and cold and tearless — even then his purpose might have 
failed him! But Philip relumed no more; and that evening, when 
the twilight gathered over Kersaint, and Marguerite, attended only 
by her faithful servant, was weeping out her very heart in the same 
room where Philip left her, he was already far on his way to Paris. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Love and its sorrows undoubtedly weigh more lastingly upon 
women than men. No man ever yet broke his heart for love, al- 
though some few may bear the scars of disappointment to their 
grave. The world, ambition — a thousand channels are open to turn 


234 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


the mind from what, after all, is more a pastime with most men 
than a serious occupation; and, in nine cases out of ten, other loves 
— lighter ones, it may be — spring up to replace the first and pure 
one. But women, in solitude and tears, hug this kind of grief to 
their hearts; and, from their lack of any other engrossing pursuit, 
think unceasingly upon the forbidden fruit whose taste once changed 
their life into a paradise, until it becomes even sweeter in recollec- 
tion than reality. Men may feel as much, but they show it differ- 
ently; and had Marguerite been able to see Philip, three days after 
he left her, at a large dinner in Paris, more gay and sparkling than 
ever, she would certainly have accused him, and unjustly, of for- 
getting her. 

Philip found many bachelor friends in Paris on his arrival— young 
London men, who contrive to form a society of their own there 
when all the Paris world is in the country —and he entered into 
their life with a feverish kind of desire to escape from himself and 
Ills own thoughts. The St. Legers, too, happened to be in Paris at 
the time; and the idea, in itself, of being near his wife was enough 
to goad him almost to madness in his present excited mood, and 
make him fly to any dissipation for forgetfulness. 

Letters from England awaited him. He had given his address at 
Kersaint to no one; but a host of notes, left at his lodgings in town 
after his hasty departure, with one or two kind letters from old 
Miles, had been forwarded to the Paris agent of his publisher as he 
directed before leaving England. There were a dozen despairing 
notes from Pose Elmslie, full of regrets that he should have mis- 
interpreted her, and reproaches at his abrupt departure, et cetera; 
but Philip could scarcely read them through, and flung aside the 
last without flnishing it to the end. Had he done so, a certain tone 
of sincerity in her hints at some desperate purpose might have struck 
him; but, after the love of Marguerite St. John, he was in no mood 
for the sentimentalities of Miss Rose; and even a few kind lines from 
little Fridoline were thrown, half-read, into the pile of letters, care- 
lessly torn up, which lay on Philip’s table the day he left Paris. 

For it was in vain he strove to forget Marguerite. Her girlish 
figure, her sweet, loving face rose beside him continually; and after 
a weary fortnight of sleepless nights and heavy days, Philip started 
for Switzerland — pale, haggard, and out of health, and having 
offended all his old friends with his querulous moods and odd out- 
breaks of temper. 

The resting-place he chose was a little hamlet near Meran. It 
was now the time of early vintage; and in those southern nights. 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


235 


when the purple mountains stood in their clear softness upon the 
cloudless sky, and 1 he silence so peculiarly solemn among mountains 
was around, Earnscliffe’s thoughts became calmer than they had been 
for weeks. The anxiety and excitement he had gone through, during 
the time of. Mr. St. Jolm’s death, and Marguerite's illness, had 
physically weakened him; but, as the mountain air restored his old 
elasticity of frame, his mind returned more into its habitual state, , 
until, at length, he was able soberly to reason with himself upon 
this last and deepest disappointment, and look forward to life from 
his fresh starting-post; for every real disappointment is an era from 
whence a man must, in some measure, start anew, either for better 
or worse. 

He lingered among the Italian lakes, still shunning every English, 
person with whom he came in contact, and spending whole days, 
and often nights, in an open boat upon the water, alone and silent; 
but, perhaps, once more happier than he would have chosen to be- 
lieve, In the autumnal nights, the air heavy with voluptuous odors 
from orange and myrtle groves on shore, under the rich, deep sky 
of the south — and still with Marguerite in fancy beside him, and 
her soft hand in his — I am disinclined to think that Mr. Earnscliffe 
was utterly miserable. His youth was yet too strong within him 
for beauty, whether human or that of nature, to have lost all its old 
power. Although his truest love was gone forever, and the world 
and ambition were no longer what they had been, his temperament 
was still a poet’s, and too keenly alive to external enjoyment for 
existence to be as really dark as he had pictured it. 

At Milan he found a long, kind letter from Keville, full of busy 
projects for their ensuing winter together; and late one December 
night Philip first saw the spectral dome of St. Peter’s loom before 
him in the starlight. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

But with Marguerite life went differently. She wept for Philip 
until she could literally weep no more — wept with an intensity of 
grief unusual in one so young, and rendered more touching by her 
perfect gentleness and submission of character. The doctor wished 
to remove her from Kersaint to his own house for a few weeks prior 
to her departure for England, but this she so earnestly opposed that 
he was forced to let her have her own wish and remain^ 

As the time wore on when she was to leave France, she scarcely 


^36 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


spent an hour of the day within doors. Her bodily strength had 
somewhat returned, and she would sit alone among the rocks for 
hours, or wander over the walks she had taken with Philip, and 
pluck the few autumn flowers she could find to be dried and carried 
with her to England. In the evening Manon made her a bright 
wood fire in the library, as in old days, and she would remain there 
for two or three hours, never reading or working, but sitting on her 
low stool, gazing in the fire, her head resting on the arm of her fa- 
ther’s empty chair, with Bello crouching by her side. 

Marguerite had written several times to her cousin in reply to his 
letters; and begged that her father’s books and the old pictures 
might not be sold. The only things I care to keep,” she had said. 
And Hanby promised they should be sent after her to England. 
But she looked upon her father’s dog so entirely in the light of a 
friend, that it never occurred to her that he could be left behind,* 
and had not even mentioned to Danby that she would bring a large 
deer-hound to his house. 

The evening before her departure arrived, and as she sat, tearless 
and wan, before the fire, thinking drearily of the morrow and of her 
long journe}" alone, poor Bello suddenly gave one of his quick, im- 
patient barks, and licked her hand; looking up into her face at the 
same time, as though to show that he could understand, and sympa- 
thized with her sorrow. Bello,” she said, laying her arm round 
his neck, I must not forget you. You are the only thing left to 
me.” 

And I, mademoiselle?” exclaimed Manon, who sat watching 
her with the devouring, eager look of a mother about to be parted 
from her own child. “ What will be left to me?” 

My poor Manon! But, at least, you will not leave France; you 
will even remain at Kersaint until — until — the old place is sold, and 
afterward you are to live at Jean d’Aubret’s cottage, where you will 
have the bright sea before you, and even see the roof of Kersaint in 
the distance. Oh! you will be better off than me.” 

Mademoiselle, you have been too generous, and by your noble 
father’s recollection of me, and with my own savings, I shall be 
well off, and never require to work again. I am grateful to the hon 
Dieu for his mercy! But, child, what is this if I am to lose you? 
For sixteen years, little one, I have nursed and watched, and not 
one night or day been without you. Sixteen years — and after to- 
morrow I shall be alone. I shall never hear your voice — never look 
upon your face again. Oh, child! I did not think I was to lose 
you thus. If things had been as I hoped, and—” 


PHILIP EAElsSCLIFFE. 


237 


*‘Manon,” interrupted Marguerite, hastil}^ “I know what you 
would say; do not give me the pain of hearing it. Speak of noth- 
ing but your love for me to-night. God knows I need to be told of 
it! I am not likely to meet with such love again;” and, going to 
her side, she laid her head upon Manon’s shoulder, and was silent. 
Her grief seemed now of that dull, heavy nature which can not ad- 
mit of the relief of tears. 

“ It pains you, ma mie,'’ pursued Manon, that I should speak 
of ce momieur, but I will do so nevertheless. How can I tell that 
you will never meet him again, or others like him, in his own coun- 
try? and I choose to warn my darling against such men. I am a 
poor, rough peasant; I know little of great people, and. Heaven be 
praised! less of love; but I could not be your father’s servant for 
twenty years without learning what the honor of a gentleman is 
like — and Monsieur Earnscliffe was not so.” 

‘‘Manon, you forget yourself 1” interrupted Marguerite, starting 
to her feet, and drawing up her stately young figure to its full 
height. “ You forget yourself strangely in presuming to judge of 
Mr. Earnscliffe or his actions! I knew long ago— of — of — that he 
was married; and, even if he had never mentioned it, how could it 
have signified to us? None but you, Manon, would have ever in- 
dulged in dreams of my becoming his wife! He dishonorable! you 
don’t know what you are saying — you speak in your ignorance!” 

She turned proudly away; but her heart throbbed painfully while 
«he was speaking. A sudden thought fiashed across her that there 
might be some truth in Manon’s words, although she had always 
disbelieved Philip’s self -accusations; and that thought was agony 
to her. She would rather have been guilty herself than have 
doubted him. 

“ Mademoiselle,” returned Manon, meekly, “ this is the last even- 
ing we shall ever be together, and for the first time in your life you 
liave spoken harshly to me.” 

“You spoke against him, Manon!” 

“ Why should you care, ma mtef—he is married.’’ 

“ I know it; you need not remind me so often that I am nothing 
to him. But that does not prevent me from remembering Mr. 
Earnscliffe- with — with respect and admiration.” 

“ Ah, mademoiselle, you are very young; forget him.” 

Marguerite bent her head, and gazed long upon the red embers. 
She was thinking of the evening when she and Philip stood, side by 
side, ill the fire-light, and she had listened for the first time to that 
voice, whose slightest sound was afterward such music to her. She 


238 


PHILIP EARl^SCLIFPE. 


thought of all that had happened since then— the new light that had 
opened upon her in his love, and her own — her father’s death — 
Philip’s departure. All passed before her vaguely and dream-like,, 
but leaving a dull shadow behind each as it passed away, while she 
gazed in the red embers. 

‘'Forget him!” she repeated, after a long silence, and startling 
Manon with her solemn tone. “ Would God I could forget him!” 

She reseated herself in her old place, and began speaking of other 
things. “ Manon, while you are here do not neglect my flowers, 
and when strangers come to Kersaint, if there is any young girl 
among them, ask her to take care of my white rose-tree. And,. 
Manon, be kind to Bruno now, he will have no other friend left, 
and if I can I will try to send him some money, poor creature! 
Tell Bon Atfut I am gone, and wish him good-bye for me: and„ 
above all, take the Blaisots the presents I have laid aside for them. 
Say to Monsieur le Cure, I had only a few books to send ‘him, but 
I hope he will never forget me, nor cease to pray for me. And, 
Manon, dear Manon, do not grieve too much for me when I am 
gone. We may meet again sooner than we expect, and I will write 
to you as often as I have anything to say; and if I am ever rich,”^ 
she tried to smile, “ you shall come and be my servant.” 

Manon strove vainly to repress her tears, and speak cheerfully of 
the future. Ever and anon a sob choked her utterance, as the 
reality of the approaching separation forced itself upon her; and at 
ten o’clock — glad of any excuse for action — she made Marguerite 
leave the study and go to rest, reminding her of the early hour at 
which she must start next morning. Then Manon undressed her, 
as in old days when she was a little child, and afterward sat by the 
bedside talking to her of her mother and of long past times, until, 
at length, Marguerite’s eyes grew heavy, and she slept. 

But Manon watched all that night — counted every breath of her 
child as she hung over her in her sleep — saw, at length, the cold 
glimmering of the day that was to divide them; and not until she 
had kissed Marguerite for the last time in the diligence, and re- 
turned again to the solitary Manoir did she give way to her own 
passionate outburst of sorrow. 

* * * * * * 

“ Est ce que cela wus gene, monsieur T' 

“ Mats du tout, mademoiselle!'' with a polite smile as Bello ex- 
tented his length in the coupe of the diligence, and crushed up the 
feet of the Frenchman who was M^^rguerite’s traveling com- 
panion. 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIPFE. 


239 


“ Dw told! Few things inconvenience me. ” And the speaker, 
:a ferociously ugly little man, threw himself back in his seat, and 
began to sing. “You like music, I am sure, you must like it, with 
your face? Then your voyage will be a pleasant one, for singing is 
my forte. ’ ’ 

His voice was worse than his face; but his utter, his appalling 
cheerfulness so to speak, aroused Marguerite in spite of herself. 
Every small hamlet, every wretched clump of houses that they 
passed, her companion let down the window. 

“ Conducieur, how do they call this place? Ah!” evidently not 
hearing the reply, “ very well. How near are we to St. Malo?” 

“ Half a league nearer than when monsieur inquired last.” 

“Just so — ah!” (Back in his place again.) “Pardon, made- 
moiselle! your dog does not bite, I believe; just so. ‘ La Plaisir 
iin soldat.' I never was in the army though, mademoiselle. It 
is right to tell you that; for my appearance is military, and might 
mislead. No, I have served my country in another way. Con- 
ducteur, holaf where does one breakfast?” 

And so on for about two hours, until they stopped before the one 
hotel of a small dirty town. 

“ Mademoiselle does not descend?” as Marguerite declined getting 
out. “ But it is unheard of — impossible — on this raw morning to 
travel fasting. I implore — I entreat — ” But Marguerite was firm; 
and the little man, “ desolated ” at her refusal, ran in to breakfast 
alone. However, in a few minutes he returned with coffee and a 
roll — “ Mademoi^lle, I supplicate you to eat.’' 

His ugly face was so earnest that Marguerite took the coffee to 
please him, and was better for it. The poor child had not been able 
to touch a morsel before leaving Kersaint, and was actually faint 
from fasting and all the tears she had shed.- 

“lam better now,” she said, timidly, when they were once more 
on the road; “ the coffee has refreshed me.” 

“Mademoiselle!” returned the Frenchman, solemnly, “you are 
very young, very young — sixteen years, perhaps; I am forty-two; 
an immense difference— a life-time, in fact; permit that I give you a 
counsel. You are doubtless a young person of sensibility, so am I. 
You have had sorrows already probably, not greater than mine 
were. You love music, so do I. There is therefore a similarity of 
disposition— of disposition only; I am aware of external differences, 
and also of j^our thoughts at this moment. You probably consider 
me the most hideous person you ever saw.” 

* ‘ Mais^ momieu rP' 


240 


PHILIP EARNSCLIPFE. 


“ Deny it!’’ 

“ Oh, monsieur!” 

” Mademoiselle, you shrink from giving me pain, when, in fact, 
your admission of my ugliness would be the greatest compliment 
you could pay me. I hate to be like other people, and, as I am not 
handsome, I am proud of my plainness. It is a distinction, made- 
moiselle, to be the ugliest man in society, which I invariably am— a 
very great distinction.” He paused, a little out of breath, then re- 
sumed with a sort of a jerk. “ Ah! my counsel to you; pardon me 
for wandering from my subject; you did not know I had one, I 
have though. My counsel to you is this. In all your trials, your 
sorrows, your disappointments— for, even with your youth and 
beauty you may have them— eat and drink. When I was young, I 
had dreadful grief, a grief that went to my heart’s core (you can 
guess its nature, perhaps), and at first I really thought I should 
never get over it. But I happened at that time to be staying in 
Perigueux, and to that circumstance I owe my very life; for a pate 
de Perigueux accidentally taught me one of the greatest secrets of a 
man’s existence. 

“ It happened on the third day after my — bereavement, I may call 
it; I came down from my room. I was living in an hotel, the Chene 
Vert, at the time, pale and haggard; figure to yourself that I had 
eaten nothing for about sixty hours. I entered the salle- ^-manger 
with no better intention than to have one cup of cafe noir, and then 
go out and put an end to myself. Well, as luck would have it. 
neither of the gardens were there, or answered to my call, and I was 
just leaving the room again, when my eyes fell upon the most love- 
ly little breakfast you ever saw, laid out for one person on a side- 
table. I think I see it now, a pate de Perigueux, a cold capon, and 
a bottle of Chateau Margaux. Now, mademoiselle, the devil may 
have put it into my head; but when I sav; it all, although I knew 
it was for a fat old colonel of dragoons, who came there regularly 
every morning to breakfast, I resolved to eat it myself. ‘ As I shall 
be a corpse by noonday, ’ I thought, ' the old fellow can not call me 
out. ’ And with that I sat down and began. 

“ Ma foi! I think I taste that pie now. Never, before or since, 
have I eaten anything so delicious. I finished the whole of it; I 
eat half the capon, and I drank the wine. Then I looked through 
the window, and saw the colonel coming along, stroking his beard 
and clanging his sword as he walked. ‘Place aux morts!’ I 
thought ; ‘ I shall so soon be dead, that it is only fair a living man 
should give me his breakfast.’ So I jumped up, took my hat, and 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


241 


got out just as my colonel swaggered in, and the waiters all rushed 
up to show him into the salle. 

“ Well, when I got into the streets, everything seemed changed. 
The sun was shining on the old cathedral, the people in the market 
looked happy and cheerful, and by the time I had got to the bridge 
that was to witness my death, I never felt in better spirits in my 
life. I went back to the hotel, where the old colonel was swearing 
eternal perdition to the scoundrel who had eaten his breakfast, and 
frankly confessed my delinquency, and that it had saved my life. 
And from that day to this I have always known that eating and 
drinking is a sovereign remedy against bad spirits or misfortune. 

‘ ‘ But, mademoiselle, I have often thought, from the look of his 
eye, when he heard my explanation, that greedy old beast of a 
colonel would much sooner I had jumped off the highest bridge in 
France than have eaten his breakfast. Such is human nature!” 

Marguerite listened, and tried to smile at her companion’s long 
stories, but she felt wearied and spiritless. To be alone, and travel- 
ing to unknown people, and a new home, was enough in itself to 
depress her, even had it only been for a visit; but when continually 
the thought arose that she had seen Kersaint for the last time, and 
that strange faces and new scenes were henceforth to be her life, the 
great tears rose in her eyes, and her wan face became paler and 
paler. Late in the day the diligence stopped at St. Brieux for din- 
ner. 

“ Mademoiselle ne descende pas?” again inquired the waiter, in 
astonishment, as Marguerite hesitated. 

“ Certainly,” answered the little man at her side, fiercely. “ We 
both descend.” 

And Marguerite felt grateful for his protection, as they entered 
the large room, at which the table d'hote dinner had already com- 
menced, and about twenty bearded faces looked up in visible ad- 
miration at her as she came in. 

“ Bring some hot soup,” said her small companion, when they 
were seated. Soup is what 3^ou want, mademoiselle,” he whis- 
pered. “ Wine would not suit you, and a choking sensation in your 
throat prevents you from eating solid food. However, as you pay 
three francs, whether you eat much or little, you can help yourself 
from the dishes as they come round, and make over what you don’t 
want to your dog.” For Bello, faithful to his old trust of protector, 
kept close to Marguerite’s side, and made angry demonstrations^ 
when the waiters tried to turn him out. 


24:2 


PHILIP EAKis SCLIPPE. 


“ I think I shall have to pay for Bello,” said Marguerite. “ In 
the diligence they made me pay a coupe place for him. ” 

” Poor child!” returned the little man, kindly. “ When you are 
en wyage you must not pay everything they demand. Was no one 
with you when you paid for the dog?” 

Only Manon, and you know she does not understand travel- 
ing.” 

''Manon — oh, yes! I see. Garmon I la carte. Chateau Margaux 
— ^La Rose — St. Julien — that will do. A half-bottle^ah!” 

Marguerite thought the long dinner would never end, and was 
astonished at her little companion’s powers of reception. Fish, 
flesh, and fowl, solids and sweets — there was room for all; and 
when the conducteur of the diligence came in to announce that the 
horses were ready to start, he emptied two or three dishes of walnuts 
and bonbons into his pockets, to amuse himself with on the way. 

The shadows soon began to deepen, and in another hour it was 
night— night! — for the first time, and with strangers. Marguerite 
looked out upon the barren tracts of country through which they 
were passing, and over which a watery moon occasionally broke 
forth through the mist, and trembled as the cold autumn wind swept 
in upon her cheeks. The Frenchman, tired out at last, slept in his 
corner. Bello lay motionless at her feet, and only the cracking of 
the conducteur’s whip, as they rattled through some solitary village, 
broke the monotonous rumbling of the wheels. 

Sick and weary. Marguerite laid her head back in the corner of 
the diligence, and at length an uncertain and restless slumber over- 
came her. She was roused by a more vigorous cracking of the whip 
than usual, and the rattling of the wheels over rough pavement; 
and looking out, she saw that they were in a town, rolling along 
narrow, ill-lighted streets, and rousing up the peaceful Inhabitants 
from their midnight slumbei’s. They stopped suddenly before the 
Hotel de France, and the Frenchman awoke with a start. 

‘‘ Sacre Mort ! Where are we? Conducteur, are we here?” 

“ Monsieur, we are here.” 

” Dieu sait b^ni! Mademoiselle, we are in St. Malo.” 

He jumped out with his little sac de nuit, his only luggage (it is 
wonderful with how few changes a Frenchman can travel), and 
then assisted Marguerite to descend. “ How many pieces have 
you?” he inquired; “ I will see after your baggage for you.” 

‘ ‘ I^ous ne de chargeons * pas le soir, ’ ’ said the conducteur, 
sleepily. 


PHILIP EAENSCLIFFE. 


243 


‘ ' But I start early to-morrow by the steamer for England, ” Mar- 
guerite interposed. 

“All in time,” returned the man, who was now unharnessing 
the horses. “ Entrez, entrez, mademoiselle.” 

“ I hope it is all right,” she said, turning to her friend, “ Manon 
told me never to lose sight of my things.” 

“ Do not fear. I will take care of them for you. At what 
o’clock does the steamer start to-morrow, gargonf” to the half- 
awakened porter, w^ho, candle in hand, was impatiently waiting for 
them to enter. “ Cinq heures et demie. Bon! Show mademoiselle 
to a sleeping- room. 1 shall remain in the salle,’' the little man 
thought. “It is nearly one now, and it is not worth paying for a 
bed for four hours. I can sleep sweetly on a chair. ” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ Cinq heures, mademoiselle. Vous n’avez qu’un petit quart 
d’heure pour le dejeuner.” 

Marguerite started, and saw a rosy, good-tempered peasant-girl 
standing by her side. 

“ Where am I, Manon?” she exclaimed. 

“ You must not delay, mademoiselle!” called out a discordant 
voice in the passage; “the steamer starts precisely.” The tone 
recalled to her the events of the past day, and after hastily bathing 
her face and smoothing back her long, uncurled hair, she followed 
the bon7ie down-stairs, and found her little traveling companion 
awaiting her in the great vacant salte, where some coffee stood ready 
on the table. 

“ Monsieur, I hope you have not risen so early for my sake?” 

“ Not at all, mademoiselle; in fact, I have not risen at all, for I 
preferred not going to bed. Take some breakfast, I entreat : if you 
are a bad sailor, it will not make you worse to eat; if you are a good 
one, it will save you buying it on board, where, as it is an English 
boat, the coffee will be execrable, and the price enormous.” 

Marguerite seated herself, but she could eat very little. “I won- 
der where my luggage is?” she suggested, timidly. 

“Give yourself no trouble: I know,” said the Frenchman. 
“ Have you really finished? Then, mademoiselle, we had better 
start; the tide is low, and you must take a small boat.” 

Outside the hotel stood a porter, waiting for them, with all Mar- 
guerite’s luggage. The day was now just beginning to dawn, but 


244 


PHILIP EAE]S"^SCLIFFE. 


the narrow streets were so dark, she would never have made her 
way without her guide, who gave her liis arm, and assisted her over 
the rough, dirty pavement. At the harbor, a crowd of noisy boat- 
men assailed them, and attempted each to seize some of the lug- 
gage; but the little man waved his hand imperiously, and made his 
way to a better-looking boat than the rest, into which he helped 
Marguerite, Bello closely following. 

The steam was just up wdien they reached the vessel, and the 
Frenchman had only time to run up the companion-ladder and see 
Marguerite and all her things safely on board before the bell rang, 
and it was time for him to return.’’ 

“Monsieur, I can not thank you sufficiently.” Marguerite ex- 
tended her hand. The little man touched it, then bowed low. 

“ Here is my card, mademoiselle,” he replied, producing a very 
glossy one from his waistcoat-pocket; “ and in the vilain pays to 
which you are going, I shall be too honored if my name is not for- 
gotten in your thoughts — the last Frenchman, remember, to whom 
you have spoken before your exile — ” 

“ Going with us, raounseer?” said a sailor, jogging his elbow. 

“ No, I dank God, sare. I not vis you.” 

“ Well, you must look sharp, then; we’re just off.” 

The Frenchman, with much dignity, descended the ladder, and 
in another minute the steamer was in motion. 

Marguerite glanced at the card, on which was written, ‘ ‘ Achille 
Jules Caesar le Grand, Marchand Tailleur,” and then at the small 
hero himself, who was sitting in the boat watching her. She waved 
her hand kindly, and was ashamed to feel the tears come into her 
eyes. “ This little tailor is perhaps the last person who will show 
kindness to me,” she thought. Just then, another idea flashed 
across her — she had paid nothing in the hotel or boat, and of course 
Monsieur Achille would be responsible for all, “ and he was too deli- 
cate to tell me of it!” she said, as the steamer swept out of the har- 
bor, and he vanished out of her sight. “ And only a tailor!” 

Her further reflections upon her own forgetfulness were here in- 
terrupted by warlike sounds from Bello, who was resenting the at- 
tempts of two sailor lads to remove him from Marguerite’s side. 

“ Blow the great ugly brute!” said one; “ whoever heard tell of 
passengers bringing such as you aboard, before?” 

“You had better not touch him,” interposed Marguerite, in her 
soft, foreign accent; “he is so fierce to strangers! If he must not 
be here, I will go where you like to take him, and he will follow.” 

Both lads touched their caps. “ We didn’t know he belonged to 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


24:5 


you, miss; tliere’s a regular place for dogs below^ but it ain’t fit for 
you to come there.” However, Marguerite went with them, and 
saw Bello safely consigned for the voyage, and then returned to her 
place. 

It was a fresh autumn morning, with a rising wind from the west; 
and the heavy cross sea soon sent the other passengers below. But 
to her the roar of the waters, and the cold spray dashing across her 
face was delightful, and she remained on deck, silently watching 
the coast of France until it vanished in the hazy distance. At about 
ten o’clock they reached Jersey, where they had to change into a 
larger steamer, and this time she was forced to see herself after the 
luggage and Bello : no pleasant task for one so young and timid, 
and with the consciousness that she spoke like a foreigner. How- 
ever, she managed pretty well; and though no English gentleman 
eame forward to assist, the common sailors were all civil, and 
touched their hats when they spoke to her. Marguerite was 
dressed, of course, in the deepest mourning, and, according to the 
provincial French fashion, a long crape veil nearly reached to her 
feet. But her fresh young face was one that black became; and a 
certain air of timidity, perfectly distinct from shyness, joined to her 
graceful and dignified carriage, told even the commonest sailor-boy 
that, though she was traveling alone, she was of gentle birth. 

There were a great many passengers from Jersey, and some ladies 
seated themselves beside Marguerite. One of them was young and 
good-looking, and as the steamer passed along the varied coast of 
the island. Marguerite said to her gently, “ It is beautiful, this little 
island, madame!” 

The lady stared, and then laughed, and then, with the slightest 
possible bow, turned away and went on talking to her companions. 

“ Heavens! are these English women; can they be compatriots of 
Philip’s?” thought Marguerite. However, this little incident served 
as a warning to her to speak to no more strangers; and she sat alone 
and silent the whole remainder of the day, eating only a few bis- 
cuits, and declining to go below to the cabin dinner. 

It was quite dark when they reached Southampton, and, as she 
had forgotten to mention the exact day when the steamer sailed, no 
one was there to meet her, and she had alone to disembark and go 
to an hotel, where the enormous bill the next morning made Mar- 
guerite blush with shame as she thought of Monsieur Achille, and 
wondered if he had paid so much for her at St. Malo. 

“ Four shillings for my supper! I thought I had nothing,” she 
ventured to suggest to the magnificent head- waiter. 


246 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


“ For D’s supper, miss. Allow me to refer. Ah! your large 
dog ; two more for his breakfast. ” 

She paid without a word, but hoped, mentally, meat would not 
be so dear in London as at Southampton, or her cousin' would have 
to pay a good deal for Bello’s keep. 

“ Do you have a commissioner to clear your things, miss? , He 
will bring them to the station, and save you all trouble.” 

“ Oh, if you please.” 

“ And a carriage for yourself?” 

“ Certainly.” And with all these small expenses, together with 
similar ones in London, Marguerite reached her cousin’s house with 
just sufficient money left in her purse to pay the cab, and very near- 
ly dead with the fatigue and excitement she had gone through. 

Danby met her himself at the door. 

“ My poor child, you are heartily welcome.” The kind tone of 
voice was a pleasant surprise to Marguerite, who had pictured hun 
to herself as very different; and a brighter expression came in her 
face, as she followed him upstairs to the drawing-room. “ If you 
had told me what day you were coming, my dear, I should have 
met you at Southampton. ' ’ 

“Oh! thank you, sir. I should indeed have been glad to see you 
on my arrival; I felt so lonely traveling by myself.” 

Danby opened the drawing-room door; and, entering. Marguerite 
saw her future companions, Mr^. Danby and Georgy, both seated 
together on the sofa, and looking frigid and stately. 

The room was not a large one; the windows were hung with rose- 
lined muslin curtains and gilded scrolls, and a rose-colored re- 

placed the old-fashioned folding-doors, communicating with the small 
black drawing-room (which, when the stained-glass window was 
open, over looked^the Tavistock Mews); endless trinkets, and gewgaws, 
and gayly bound books adorned the table; Chinese monsters of 
doubtful antiquity, stood on brackets in the corners: a score of fam- 
ily miniatures (most of them picked up in Hanway Street) hung on 
each side of the mantel-piece; water-color drawings of Miss Georgy’s 
graced the walls. But, in a moment. Marguerite detected the flimsy, 
bad taste of the room, and saw that neither fresh flowers, nor well 
read books, nor signs of occupation, gave it the look of home. She 
glanced at the De Burghs, and knew they were neither of them pre- 
pared to like her. 

“Here is little Marguerite,” said Danby, rather nervously. 
“ Mrs. Danby, my dear! your new cousin.” 

Mrs. Danby extended three languid Angers to her “ new cousin,” 


PHILIP EARIsSCLIFFE. 


247 


^nd the expression of Georgy’s face betokened anything but a hearty 
welcome. She had troubled herself very slightly about Marguerite, 
as soon as she found that Earnscliffe would not accompany her, and 
only expected to see an awkward country girl of sixteen, who would 
not be much in her own way, and probably some day go out as a 
governess; and when Marguerite entered in all her flush of striking 
beauty, and with as much grace of - manner as though she had been 
accustomed to good society from her cradle, the surprise was by no 
means agreeable. She did not want a lovely girl, ten years younger 
than herself, to attract away the attention of the few men they man- 
aged to get at the house, and at once foresaw a desperate rival in 
Marguerite. 

“ How do you do, Miss St. John? You must excuse my sur- 
prise; but from your letters, we expected quite a little girl.” 

Ah!” returned Marguerite, in her rich voice and foreign accent, 

I express my English so ill; no doubt you thought my letter child- 
ish; but I am, indeed, sixteen — sixteen and a few days.” 

You look very much older.” 

‘‘Yes? Oh! I do not look at all old without my bonnet.” 

“ You have your father’s eyes, child,” said Danby, very kindly. 

The little speech went to Marguerite’s heart, and she turned and 
kissed the old man’s cheek- ‘‘Oh, cousin! he so often spoke of 
you,” she whispered, while the ready tears gathered in her eyes. 

Mrs. Danby tossed her head, and Georgy said something about 
scenes. Marguerite looked very calmly from one to the other. She 
knew intuitively they did not like her, and drew nearer to Danby, 
as to her only friend. 

“You must be very tired, dear,” he went on, “ after your long 
journey. Dinner will be ready in about an hour. Georgy, take 
your cousin to her room.” 

Very slowly Miss Georgy rose; and she was leisurely approaching 
Marguerite when the door burst open, and in flew Bello, nearly up- 
setting two great china jars as he entered, and leaving marks of his 
muddy feet upon the carpet. Danby was very timid with dogs — it 
amounted almost to a peculiarity with him — and he exclaimed as 
loud as the two women at the intruder. 

“ Poor Bello!” said Marguerite, quietly; “it is all so strange to 
him; but he will soon get used to you.” 

“Miss St. John,” exclaimed Mrs. Danby, actually rising from 
the sofa with outraged dignity. “ You do not mean that that mon- 
ster is yours?” 

“ Undoubtedly he is, madame.” 


248 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


And you have brought him with you to this house?” 

“I have.” 

“My dear,” interrupted Danby, “there must be some .mistake f 
You can not mean that you wish that very large hound to become 
my guest.” 

“ Cousin, he was my father’s favorite — his constant companion.”^ 

“ Oh! was he? Ah, poor Percy! Well,* we will see.” 

Danby fidgeted about, and winced as Bello glared savagely at 
him and showed his teeth. 

“But, to tell the truth,” he went, more resolutely, “I am not 
fond of dogs. ’ ’ 

“ Not fond of dogs? Oh! sir, you must like Bello. When once 
he knows you well, he will be so faithful! It is his very sagacity 
that prevents his taking to strangers.” 

“Yes, exactly; but in the meantime — ” 

“In the meantime,” interrupted Mrs. Danby, “you will recol- 
lect, Miss St. John, I don't allow such creatures in my drawing- 
room. What your cousin may permit in his sitting-room, I know 
not!” 

“ Perhaps Wilkins likes dogs,” hesitated poor Danby. 

“ Perhaps something temporary might be arranged in the coal- 
hole,” cried Miss Georgy, wittily. 

Marguerite looked from one to the other of the speakers, her dark 
eyes dilating, and her lips parted. She really scarcely understood 
them at first. That any one professing regard for her father should 
hesitate at the slight inconvenience of receiving his dog, was some- 
thing she could not believe; but at Miss Georgy’s remark, and the 
sneer accompanying it, her cheek fiushed crimson. 

“ Am I to have a room to myself?” she said, turning to Danby. 

“ Of course, of course, my dear, and — ” 

“Then, please may Bello come with me? He shall trouble no 
one else.” 

“ That brute in one of the bedrooms!” said Mrs. Danby. 

“ Oh, madame! would you turn him into the streets? He is old, 
and will not live very long, and he is all remaining to me of my 
home.” 

Mrs. Danby turned very coldly from the supplicating young face, 
and addressed her husband. 

“Just settle all this as you like, Mr. Danby; but spare me any 
more scenes with this young person for the future. I am not in a 
state to bear these shocks on my nerves, and as it is, I shall be ill 
and unstrung for the rest of the day. And, Mr. Danby, sir ” (her 


PHILIP EARNSCLIPFE. 


249 


voice became prophetically shrill), “ turn out that creature, that 
monster, and take away — the young person — I am fainting;” and 
this excellent woman sunk back hysterically on the sofa. 

So Danby himself showed Marguerite to her room, a very small 
one, overlooking extensive ranges of chimney-pots, with a distant 
glimpse of the Foundling Hospital, and a mews in the foreground. 
And here, with Bello crouching by her side, she wept like a child, 
ns she was, at. her first coming to her new home. 


CHAPTER XXXHI. 

And why did not Mr. Earnscliffe bring you?” was Georgy's 
first distinctly addressed question to Marguerite in the course of the 
evening. “ 1 thought he was such a great friend, he would not 
Jiave let you travel alone!” 

The sudden mention of his name made Marguerite color up, and 
start, in a manner that caused Georgy to fix her eyes searchingly 
upon her face, and draw all sorts of conclusions in a moment. 

” Mr. Earnscliffe had left; he was only paying us a visit.” 

“ Returned to England? Shall you know him in London, then?” 

‘‘ Oh, no!” replied Marguerite, very quickly. ” 1 shall not see 
Mm any more; he is going to Italy, to remain abroad some years.” 

“Ah! I never thought it would be much of an acquaintance,” 
said Mrs. Danby scornfully from her throne on the sofa. 

But Georgy, with sharper eyes, saw that it had been an intimate 
acquaintance, and that Marguerite winced at the name. “ Tell us 
what Earnscliffe is like?” she went on, happy in her power of mak- 
ing the poor child’s face blush and her eyes fill. “ I have seen 
him, but not near. Is he very good-looking?” 

“ Yes,” said Marguerite, in a low voice, and gazing straight into 
the fire, round which they were sitting; “he is considered very 
Handsome.” 

“ Considered?— but what do you think?” 

“ I— I — hardly know, madame.” 

“‘Madame!’” said Georgy, laughing rudely. “It is not the 
fashion in England to call young ladies ‘ madame.’ How long did 
he stay with you?” she went on relentlessly. 

“ Three months altogether. ” 

“ A visit of three months— goodness! What was there to amuse 
Mm! — had you any neighbors, or parties?” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Marguerite, hoping to escape from speaking of 


250 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


Philip; “ we knew no one but the cure and the doctor, and I never 
went to a party in my life.” 

“ No one would say it from her manner,” Danby ventured to re- 
mark. 

“No; there are some people without iiny natural timidity,” re- 
plied his wife; “ and Miss St. John appears to be one of them.” 

“ But how did you amuse Mr. Earnscliffe?” went on Georgy, un- 
tiring in her sport. 

“ He never wanted to be amused; he was perfectly happy, con- 
versing with my father, or wandering through our wild woods with 
me,” 3’eplied Marguerite, turning her large, dark eyes full upon 
Miss de Burgh. “ Our life was delightful to him after having had 
so much of society in London. ” 

Utterly unused to what English young ladies term “ quizzing,” 
Marguerite had detected the bent of Georgy’s inquiries; and her 
spirit rose at the idea of being cross-examined. 

“ Oh, how pastoral!” returned Miss Georgy, with a sneer. 
“ From all I have heard of Earnscliffe, he must be just the kind of 
man for these innocent pleasures and companionships!” 

“ And who has educated you, dear?” said Danby, upon whom 
this little by-play was lost; “ for educated I am sure you are.” 

“ My father taught me in English for two hours every day,” re- 
plied Marguerite, ” while he was strong enough to do anything; and 
Monsieur le Cure has taught me in French from my infancy.” 

“ Monsieur le Cure!” interrupted Mrs. Danby, “ I trust, sir,” ad- 
dressing her husband, “ that you have not introduced a Papist into 
this house?” 

“You are not a Papist, my dear?” said Danby, nervously — 
“ surely you can not be one!” 

“ Papist, sir?” 

“Yes; a Roman Catholic.” 

“ Oh, no! Much as I admire their form of worship, I have been 
brought up to my father’s faith.” 

“ Admire their form of worship!” exclaimed Mrs. Danby, with 
pious horror. ‘ ' Idolatrous wretches ! ’ ’ 

‘ ' Ma, I wish you would drop those expressions, ’ ’ interrupted 
Georgy; “ they are so wounding to the feelings of persons of Cath- 
olic spirit.” 

“Oh, Lord! if they have begun that,'' ejaculated Danby, his 
head sinking hopelessly between his hands. ‘ ‘ Marguerite, do you 
know the difference between Anglicans and Evangelicals? because 
you soon will, if you are uninformed on the subject.” 


PHILIP EAPKSCLIPFE. 


251 


It was a singular thing that Mrs. Danhy and her daughter, being 
both so perfectly worldly, as people in general would judge, and 
having led a life abroad the reverse of devout, should now consider 
it incumbent upon them both to entertain very strong doctrinal opin- 
ions, for which they were ready, at all times and all places, to do 
battle. Each had her own church, her pet parson. Mrs. Danby at- 
tended a crowded West-end chapel, where an eloquent young ex- 
tempore preacher, of sleek face and white-handed appearance, set 
forth to a fashionable congregation the hottest amount of low- 
church doctrine that could be diluted into a discourse of an 
hour and a quarter; and, with great self-complacency on the 
subject of his own election, pronounced judgment each Sun- 
day on the heathenish idolatry and perfect certainty of perdition of 
the larger majority ctf Christendom. And Miss Georgy frequented 
a certain mysterious church, where the dim light scarcely enabled 
young ladies to read the illuminated letters on their gilt prayer- 
books, and where intoning, and candles, and flowers, and chorister- 
boys, gave much scandal to a Protestant church-warden and the mass 
of the parishioners. As may be imagined, the ladies’ opinions 
clashed not a little, and as both were very Arm, and both invited 
their spiritual directors very frequently, a good many passages of 
arms were the result. 

“I never heard of either Anglican or Evangelical, ” said Mar- 
guerite, in answer to Danby ’s question. My father was Church 
of England.” 

‘‘ Oh, that is quite old-fashioned now, my dear. However, I am 
old-fashioned myself, and I will take you to Westminster Abbey, 
for you to hear the English service, next Sunday. Of course you 
have never heard our Liturgy?” 

'' Only read by my father; but it scarcely could sound more beau- 
tiful than that. We used to have our service together every Sunday 
evening.” 

“ Well, I am glad to hear you were brought up with English 
ideas, and have not got into the foreign ways of breaking Sunday,” 
Danby observed. 

u Oh, Sunday was always such a happy day in my childhood,” 
said Marguerite, her face gladdening as she spoke. “ In winter, 
Manon and I used to dance in the great salle; in summer when fa- 
ther was well enough, we made excursions into the woods, Manon 
and all, and dined under the trees; then, afterward, I would sit 
making wreaths of the wild flowers we had gathered on the way 
while I sung songs and — ” 


252 


PHILIP* EAEKSCLIFFE. 


“ Danced— sung songs— made wreaths, my dear! Are you speak- 
ing of Sunday?” 

“Yes, sir; it was our f^te day— God’s da^^ father told me— the 
day of happiness. ” 

“ Hum!” answered Mr. Danby, shaking his head doubtfully, 
while the two extremes of church opinion exchanged looks, and 
met for once in this condemnation of such a flagrant case of im- 
morality, Mrs. Dauby deprecating with her hand as though to say 
that the state of this young woman was indeed past recall. 

“ When you are at Rome, act like the Romans.” 

At Weisb'aden and Mainz the De Burghs had flaunted, many a 
score of times, in gay silks and bonnets, to listen to military bands 
on a Sunday afternoon; but they were now in England, which made 
a very great difference, and they both regarded.Marguerite with the 
fierce eyes of outraged excellence. 

“ But,” pursued Danby, wishing to smother over everything, “ I 
am sure you will conform to English opinion now, and not dance 
or sing on Sundays. It might be very well in those wild places,, 
but — ” 

“Ah, sir,” interrupted Marguerite, mournfully, “you need not 
tell me: I shall never wish to do either here. Those were in the 
happy times before my father was so ill.” 

“ And can you speak French pretty well?” Georgy inquired. 

“ Oh,” replied Marguerite in F'rench, “ it is much more familiar 
to me than English. I greatly prefer speaking it;” and she con- 
tinued talking with that perfectly French intonation and accent to 
which no foreigner can ever attain. 

“ It is no gift,” Georgy interrupted. “ Of course, when you are 
born and brought up in the country, it would be very strange if you 
could not speak the language! Can you sing or play?” 

“ I have not learned the piano yet, but I can play accompaniments, 
to my songs on the guitar, and I have a very good voice.” 

“ And no bad opinion of yourself,” Georgy added, half aloud. 

“It is fortunate Miss St. John has such confidence in her own 
powers,” Mrs. Danby remarked; “her accomplishments she will 
probably find needful in her future walk of life. A French accent, 
above all, is desirable for a governess. Oh! how wearied lam!” 

And rising with languid dignity, the mistress of the establishment 
rang the bell, and then commanded a hungry-looking young house- 
maid with much asperity, “ to summon the servants ” — ^. e., Wil- 
kins and an unhappy attempt at a page — “ to evening readings. ” 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


253 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The winter and spring passed by, and Marguerite became at least 
accustomed to her life. Mrs. Danby and her daughter both disliked 
her in their own way, and strove ta make her home as miserable as 
possible, in the hope of forcing her to go out as a governess; but 
Danby loved his little cousin, and in the absence of his step-daugh- 
ter at her gayeties, or of his wife during her fancied illnesses, Mar- 
guerite was his only companion. 

She liked him and was grateful; but, as she told Earnscliffe, hers 
was not a nature readily to take to strangers; and even had any of 
her new associates been more refined or congenial than they "were, 
she would have been long in becoming attached to them. . 

As it was, Georgy, whose nearer approach to her own age naturally 
attracted Marguerite the most, continually jarred upon her. But 
Mrs. Danby repulsed her even more. The inanition, the selfishness 
of this woman’s life was something so new to Marguerite, after the 
gentle, uncomplaining sufferings of her own father, that she could 
scarcely even assume a tone of sincerity in inquiring after her 
fancied complaints, and in time rarely entered the drawing-room, 
where Mrs. Danby passed her time between her tawdry morning 
callers, and homeopathic doctors. When the weather was fine, 
Danby took her long walks about London, to show her the sights, 
with most of which she was very disappointed. The Exchange, the 
Tower and the Bank, seen ankle deep in mud, and through choco- 
late fogs, were so unlike the London that Philip had described, and 
she imagined! And Danby was often quite surprised at her very 
mild enthusiasm. 

‘‘ Is this the best part of London we have seen, cousin? is there 
nothing more?” asked Marguerite, one February afternoon, when 
Danby had shown her Regent Street, and Piccadilly, and Trafalgar 
Square, and they were walking home in the dusk. 

“ Xothing more? Why, child, what would you have? I thought, 
after passing all your life in a ruined old French house in Brittany, 
anything ’would appear grand. ’ ’ 

” Ah! lhat was home. But then I imagined London so different 
to what it is. My own childish fancy misled me, I suppose.” 

” I am afraid you are not happy in yourself, dear, and therefore 
nothing appears bright.” 

” Oh! 1 am happy with you, cousin. Our evenings are very pleas- 


254 : 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIPPE. 


ant together in your own room, when the others are out, and poor 
Bello may lie before the fire. It was very kind of you to let me 
keep him, and to tell me nothing of your own antipathy to dogs. I 
should be very miserable without Bello!” 

‘ ‘ Um— the dog is old. ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes; I sometimes think he will not live very long; the air is so 
diflterent for him here; and then living down in the area, you see, 
instead of wandering where he likes — ” 

“Well, my dear, you know that I have tried to have him more 
upstairs; but — ” 

“ Yes, cousin, you have been very kind in that, as in everything 
else. You always try to take my part; and, as the others do not 
like me, I am sure that my presence does not make you any happier 
in your own house. It would be far better for me to go out as a 
governess. Miss Georgy says, and perhaps she is right; but, then, I 
do not like to leave Bello. Do you think I might take him with 
me if I was a governess, cousin?” 

The childish gravity with which she asked the question made 
Danby smile; but it quickly faded from his face, and he replied — 
“ Marguerite, you would not speak of becoming a governess if you 
knew how deeply it wounds my feelings to hear you. As I have 
told you, it was through me that your father became poor; and 
while I have a home you shall never leave it. Besides this you are 
in no dependent position. When Kersaint is sold, and the money it 
realizes invested, you will have a nice little income of your own — 
enough, on my death, with what I shall leave you, to live very 
comfortably. If you never marry, little Maggy! you are not quite 
an old maid yet, you know. ’ ■ 

“ I shall soon be seventeen, sir. How time goes on; it seems 
only yesterday that I was a child. 

“ And, pray, what do you consider yourself now?” 

“ Well, Miss Georgy says that I look two- and twenty, and have 
such an old manner!” 

“ Does she? It struck me Georgy looked very glum the other 
evening at their grand reunion, as they call it, when you, in your 
black frock and the fiower I gave you, attracted so much attention 
from all her friends.” 

“I wished afterward I had not appeared,” replied Marguerite. 
“ I never will again, but Mrs. Danby told me to do so, and said my 
singing would make the party ‘ go off. ’ ” 

“ Georgy’s quondam admirer, that long-coated young parson, 
seemed to have a good deal to say to you, Maggy.” 


PHILIP EARi^-SCLIFFE. 


• 265 


‘‘ Mr. Ignatius Shirley? Oh, cousin, he told me I was a true 
Anglican! I had no idea of it before. And then, when I was de- 
scribing our cathedral at home, he stared so in my face, and re- 
peated some half-sacred lines, that yet seemed to apply to me. I 
could not understand him.” 

“Nor could Georgy either, I take it. She told me the next morn- 
ing you were a thorough flirt, Maggy!” 

Marguerite colored. “ Georgy does not like me,” she said, “ and 
calls me by that odious name, because I dislike it so much. We 
shall have a nice evening alone to-day, however. They are both 
going to the theater.” 

“ Not quite alone, dear. I asked Mr. Mortimer this morning.” 
“Oh! Mr. Mortimer does not disturb us. You and he can talk 
and play chess after dinner, while I sing my old songs to myself. 
He never minds my singing, he is so good-natured. I really like 
Mr. Mortimer.” 

They reached home, and found the ladies ready dressed in the 
drawing-room — for they had dined early, as they usually did 
when they went to the theater — Marguerite’s face all glowing with 
health and freshness as she entered; and, in spite of her dingy 
mourning, its exceeding beauty made Miss Georgy feel spiteful. 

“ How fond you are of the London streets after dark. Marguerite! 

I wonder at your taste for a young lady so pastorally brought up.” 

“ We have seen so much to-day. 1 never thought of being out 
late — otherwise I dislike walking on these dark, foggy after- 
noons.” 

“ Oh, of course! Mamma, why has she left off her Weil and 
turned her hair back from her face! A young woman of her age 
should not be dressed so childishly — it looks quite ridiculous. ’ ’ 

“ It is very immaterial how Miss St. John dresses,” drawled Mrs. 
Hanby. 

“I don’t agree with you! People see Marguerite going in and 
out of our house, and naturally look upon her as belonging to us.” 

“ Perhaps that was the reason your young parson admired her so 
much,” said Danby, “ for he used to be very fond of you, Georgy.’" 

“ Admired her, indeed!” echoed Miss de Burgh. “ I do not call 
that admiration. Any girl with a sort of look and manner can get 
young men to talk to her.” 

“ I think it highly wrong,” said Mrs. Danby, languidly, “ to put 
such ludicrous ideas into Miss St. John’s head. Her future position 
will be one in which no respectable young woman ever allows her- 
self to be addressed by the other sex — unless, indeed, some male 


256 


PHILIP EAKI^-SCLIFEE. 


dependent of the family should make her an offer of marriage. I 
remember my dear delightful friend, Lady Louisa Drj'sdale, used 
to say it was charming when the governess and butler were engaged. 
* It makes them cheerful, ’ she said, ‘ and prevents them running 
after my sons.’ ” 

Lady Dry sdale be— !” interrupted Danby, aroused out of his 
usual placidity. What has all this cursed trash of butlers and 
governesses to do with Marguerite? If any one turns out of my 
house it won’t be her, ma’am — you may be very sure. Come here 
to me, Maggy darling!” 

But Marguerite had become suddenly pale, though she never 
spoke a word. She walked straight to the door, then up to her own 
room. 

” Can I bear it?” she exclaimed, passionately, when she was 
ulone. Can I live with these people any longer? Oh, I will be a 
governess — anything sooner than remain with them. A governess 
— classed with servants! I was not made for it. Father, if you 
could see me now!” 

She did not weep. She never wept after an insult from these 
women; but her cheeks burned, and her heart beat painfully, and 
she paced up and down her small room impatiently, until she heard 
the house door close after, them. Then she bathed her face, 
smoothed back the dark masses of hair from her temples, and came 
down slowly and wearily to the drawing-room. A figure stood 
alone in the uncertain light before the fire, and thinking it was 
Danby Marguerite approached softly, and laid her hand upon his 
shoulder. 

Cousin, it is hard to bear all they say to me.” 

” All who say, Miss St. John?’’ 

“ Oh, Mr. Mortimer, forgive me! I mistook you for my cous- 
in.” 

“ What is so hard to bear?” 

Nothing — nothing that I can tell you, sir.” She seated herself 
by the fire and tried hard not to cry, while Mortimer stood silently 
looking down at her averted face. He had looked very hard at 
Marguerite of late. 

“You are left a good deal alone,” he went on. 

“ Yes, I like that. Mr. Danby and I are quite happy together.” 

“ Do you never wish to accompany Miss de Burgh to her gayeties, 
then?” 

“ Oh, never!” Marguerite glanced at her black dress. “ I would 
not go to any gay place.” 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 257 

is ot now, of course. But afterward, I suppose you will go out 
• ’^itli them?” 

‘ Never! In the first place ’’—Marguerite grew bolder at his 
Ivind tone— “ I don’t think I should ever like the same places or 
people as Georgy does; in the next, I am going to be a governess. 
Although my cousin does not much like it, I have quite made up 
my mind — ” 

” You— are — going — to be — a governess, Miss St. John?” ex- 
claimed Mortimer, laying an emphasis on each word of the ques- 
tion. 

Yes — they often tell me it would be best, and I feel it so now. 
I hope that the children will not dislike me, and that 1 may take 
Bello,” she added in a tearful wiiisper. 

Mr. Mortimer gave a kind of sound between an indignant excla- 
mation and a chuckle. An odd sound it was, that made Marguerite 
look up, and wonder what he was thinking about. 

Miss Georgy has recommended this plan, I suppose?” 

“ Yes — and Mrs. Danby too. They find me so useless here, and 
they say my Fiench accent will make it easy for me to get a good 
situation. The only thing I doubt about is Bello. Do you think 
it likely a governess will be allowed to keep a dog?” 

Mortimer’s reply was prevented by the entrance of Danby, who 
came up and kissed Marguerite kindly, then joked her upon fiirting 
with Mortimer in the dark. 

“ I shall tell Georgy,” he said. “You must know, Maggy, that 
Mortimer is an old admirer of hers.” 

“ Am I?” returned Mortimer. “ Yes, I admired the whole lot at 
Boulogne, didn’t I? and I admire them more this evening than I 
ever have before, even — ” 

“Dinner is announced,’” broke in Marguerite, quickly, afraid 
lest he should repeat her half -confidences. “ Who will take me?” 
She laid her little hand on Mortimer’s arm, and they went down 
silently, Danby following. During the dinner the two old men 
talked as usual about their cronies, and the stocks, and a misty kind 
of politics of their own; while Marguerite, with Bello by her side 
for a treat, paid very little attention to either of them. She was still 
turning over the governess scheme in her head, and thinking that, 
after all, it might be very much better than her present life. “ If 
I could be with nice people,” she thought, “ people something more 
like my father or Philip, who would be kind and not say the bitter 
things they do here, I might be happy, especially if the children 
9 


258 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


cared for me. I wonder what Manon would say, if she knew I was 
to be a governess?’' 

“ Lord St. Leger is on the verge of ruin again, I am told,” said 
Mortimer, in the middle of a small radical disquisition upon the 
aristocracy. The name roused Marguerite’s attention in a second, 
she remembered that he was the father of Philip’s wife. “ I heard 
all about it from a friend of mine, who once had the folly to accept 
some of his bills. He has" gambled away nearly the w^hole of his 
last inheritance already.” 

I remember the man well, years ago in my younger days, when 
I used to go to the Derby and Goodwood,” said Dauby. ”A 
cadaverous -looking fellow he was, and a professional gambler.” 

Yes; he has been blackballed at half the clubs in London; and 
can only now prey upon his fellow-sharks or young lads in the 
dens about St. James’s Street. ” 

“ Has he any sons?” asked Danby. 

“No, only one daughter; and she made a miserable marriage 
three or four years ago. She married Earnscliffe, the writer, who, 
lilc© all other greniuses, was a bad husband, and after two or three 
years’ wretchedness they separated. ” 

“ What, legally?” 

“ Oh, no— nothing of that kind. Mere incompatibility of temper. 
You know, Danby, the old story.” 

‘ ‘ By the way, Maggy knows Earnscliffe, ’ ’ said Danby, evading 
the question of domestic happiness. 

“ Indeed! Ah, talking of authors, do you remember — ” and 
Mortimer began a very long story about somebody they had both 
known thirty years ago. 

He had never looked at Marguerite — never seen the sudden flush, 
the paleness, the nervous clasp of her hands, at the mention of 
Earnscliffe’s name— had he done so, her future life might have been 
a very different one. For Mortimer would have married no woman 
knowing that she had had a former lover. 

They went on with their drowsy talk as before; but all Mar- 
guerite’s thoughts were changed. W'ith Earnsclifife’s name came 
back old hopes, old dreams, old sunny plans for the future. Oh, 
compared with these, how blank and dreary seemed her prospects 
now! Her head drooped, and her cheek grew so pale, that at last 
Danby noticed her; and he exclaimed abruptly — “ Maggy, child! 
what ails you? Are you ill?” 

“ No, cousin,” she answered, mournfully. 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


259 


“ You must cheer up, my dear,” went on Danby, “ and sing to 
US presently some of your French ballads. ’ ’ 

” I could not sing to-night. I have a choking sensation in my 
throat. Cousin, do you not hear; I can scarcely speak?” 

” Have you taken cold, child? Were we out too late for you?” 

” Ho, it is not that; I am— oh, cousin!” (with a sudden outburst 
of tears) “ I am wretched!” 

Marguerite!” — it was so unlike her to complain before a 
stranger, that Danby knew her sorrow must be great — “ my poor 
child, you shall tell me all this another time.” 

” Mr. Mortimer knows; Mr. Mortimer is very kind ” — her voice 
grew thick — “ I do not mind saying it before him. ” 

” But what is this sudden sorrow? I know,” he spoke hastily— 
“ what Mrs. Danby said to you this evening, and that your feelings 
were hurt — not more deeply than mine, perhaps — but that is noth- 
ing new. You have had to bear similar things before.” 

Cousin, you have always been so good, I grieve to leave you; 
and I think that is one of my greatest troubles to-night.” 

“Yes,” broke in Mortimer, “ I hear that you are going to lose 
Miss St. John, Danby.” 

“ I have heard nothing of it.” 

“ Dear cousin, you know what I said to you to-day. Well, I 
have quite made up my mind now. It will be far better for me to 
go out as a governess. ” 

“You never shall. Marguerite — never!” 

“Oh, Mr. Mortimer! speak for me. It maybe hard to be de- 
pendent and a governess; but it is worse — far worse — to live with 
relations who are unkind to me! I know that I am barely tolerated 
here, and that all my cousin’s kindness makes him more miserable 
in his own home. Speak for me, sir; tell him that it would be far 
better!” 

Mr. Mortimer rose and walked to the fire, looked into it for a few 
minutes, then turned round, and grasped his coat tails; and, sup- 
ported and flanked as it were by this familiar position of fifty 
years’ standing, he spoke deliberately, but with unusual quickness 
for him, and a certain agitation of manner. 

“ Danby, I’m a plain-spoken man, as you know. Miss St. John, 
I’m an old man, as you see. I can’t make fine speeches to either of 
you, but this I have to say ; If, Miss St. John, you will not forget 
my age, and my great unfitness to be your husband, but overlook 
it, and become my wife, you shall have settlements a duke’s daugh- 


260 


PHILIP EABHSCLIPPE. 


ter might be proud of, and all the devotion a plain old fellow like 
myself can offer. ’ ’ 

Danby literally sprung from his chair in astonishment. 

Mortimer, are you in earnest?” 

I don’t look as if I was joking, do I?” 

“ After all you have said about marrying in one’s old age, to offer 
yourself to Maggy! Adopt her, man. You can give her a happier 
home than mine, adopt her as your daughter. She’s only sixteen — 
she’s a child!” 

“ Thank you, Danby. I have made up my mind with respect ta 
my own determination long before to-night, though I never could 
bring it out. I only wish to hear what Miss St. John says; how she 
takes the idea of having such a husband as me!” 

He had never glanced at her yet, since he began to speak; and he 
had kept his eyes fixed upon Danby, even while addressing Mar- 
guerite. But now he turned slightly and looked at her. He ex- 
pected to see her, at least, a little agitated— it is conventional to be- 
lieve that young women are so, when receiving an offer of marriage, 
even from a man four times their own age — to see her blush, or 
tremble, perhaps shrink from him: but Marguerite did neither. 
She watched him intently — watching the real emotions, the earnest- 
ness of his plain face, and feeling with delighted surprise that again 
one human being on earth had conceived an affection for her. 

“ Sir,” she said at length, you are very good. I little thought 
you cared so much for me. How can I thank you enough for your 
offer?” rising to his side and looking up at him. 

“Maggy!” 

“ Miss St. John! am I indeed so happy?” 

Her cool acceptance surprised them both. It was so unlike what 
eitherjexpected, and for a moment the same thought flashed across 
them: “Can money so readily win even her fair young heart?” 
But one glance at her face — that face where all the sinless trust of 
childhood yet rested — undid the suspicion; and then a sharp regret 
smote Danby as he thought Marguerite was promising — she knew- 
n(»t what — in her desire to leave his house. 

“ Oh, Maggy! I wish I could have made you happier.” 

“ Dear cousin, you have done your best. It was the others who 
never liked me — ” 

“Miss St. John— Marguerite, will you indeed accept me?” said 
Mortimer, very gently, and bending over her. 

- “Yes, sir, if you will be troubled with me.” 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 


261 


Mortimer stooped and kissed her forehead. “ May God make 
you happy, child!” he said, solemnly. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Mortimer remained late, and they all sat talking round the fire.. 
Mortimer, whose manner had still the quiet agitation of some new- 
found happiness, although Marguerite did not perceive it, arranged 
everything as he thought would please her most; where he should 
take a new house — what carriages — what pictures— she would 
have. 

“ And Bello!” added Marguerite, stroking the old hound, as he* 
pressed close up by her side. Poor Bello! You will not object 
to him, sir? and all the dear old books from home when they 
come?” 

Everything of yours. Miss St. John, will be of value to me.” 

“Poor old Kersaint!” she went on, “ I suppose it will be sold 
soon, or let.” 

“Well,” said Danby, “ I heard from the agent in Paris a few 
days ago, and he tells me there is great difficulty in finding a tenant 
for such an out of- the- way place, and that it will be much better to 
sell. A neighboring farmer has made a tolerable bid for it already 
— he wants the land. ” 

“ And he will destroy the garden, perhaps pull down the Manoir 
itself,” added Marguerite, sadly. 

“ It must pain you to part with your old house, does it not?”^ 
asked Mortimer. 

“ Yes, I can not bear to think of it belonging to strangers. How- 
ever, it must be — ” 

“ Not now. The old house shall be kept as it is, in case you ever 
like to pay it a visit. It will be a pleasant summer excursion.” 

“You will keep Kersaint? Oh! Mr. Mortimer; and may Manou 
live there, and poor Bruno? Can it be really true that I shall see 
home again? Cousin, I am so happy!” springing to her feet, and 
clasping her hands in excitement. 

“Poor little Maggy! You look brighter than I have ever seen 
you. I wonder what they will say!” added Danby, abruptly. Tlie\^ 
always meant his womenkind. 

Mortimer chuckled a little. “ It will be rather a surprise for- 
Miss Georgy, I imagine, this failure of the governess scheme.” 


262 


PHILIP E/.KHSCLIFFE. 


“ I am sure Georgy will be glad,” said Marguerite. “ For she 
does not like my living here, and — ” 

Well, Maggy; why do you hesitate?” 

“Oh! Georgy has often said how eccentric it was of Mr. Morti- 
mer not to marry; so she will be glad to see him married at last.” 

“ Delighted, I have no doubt, and her ‘ mamma ’ also!” said Mor- 
timer, dryly. 

“I am very delighted at my departure, if they are not at your 
marriage,” cried Marguerite, laughing. “But they will be sur- 
prised! Only this evening Mrs. Danby spoke with such certainty of 
my being a governess!” 

“ A governess!” echoed Mortimer, half aloud. “ Such a glorious 
creature as that — a governess!” 

Certainly Marguerite did not look much suited for one at that 
moment, as she stood before him in an attitude of the most child -like 
and unconscious grace — her face flushed, her bright curls falling 
in a perfect cloud about her shoulders. 

“ Surely you never thought of it in earnest?” 

“ Indeed 1 did; although my cousin was so good he never liked 
to hear of it. Perhaps I should have got on pretty well. I don’t 
know. But oh! Mr. Mortimer, I like my new prospects so much 
better; I feel as if I had a home again, now that Kersaint is not to 
he sold.” And she turned her eyes to his with a soft, warm ex- 
pression that made Mortimer’s heart thrill, as it had never done 
during his sixty years of hard life. 

“ Cousin Danby must come often, must he not, to see us?” Vs. 
How sweet the word sounded from her lips! “ Whenever you are 
alone I shall hold you engaged to me, cousin — remember.” 

“ I shall miss you terribly, Maggy. Nothing but the thought of 
your own increased happiness could reconcile me to your marrying 
so young. You seem such a child still — not seventeen, and — ” 

“ Danby, don’t begin about adopting again,” interrupted Morti- 
mer, quickly. “ You have preferred marrying a lady of experience; 
it is my happiness to have won a girl of sixteen.” 

“ And Heaven grant your choice may turn out the best, my 
friend. I am sure I ought not to offer advice on such subjects, with 
my own fate as an example of my judgment.” 

A thundering double knock at the door here made the quiet trio 
«tart, and Danby turned quite pale. “ Who is to tell them?” he 
fiaid, nervously. “ We must decide at once.” 

“ Not I,” said Mortimer, evidently enjoying his friend’s discom- 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


265 


posure. “ Of course, you are the proper person. You are Miss 
St.* John’s guardian.” 

“Well, the fact is — I am rather — 

“ Oh, I will, cousin. I know you would rather not say it. And 
they can not be angry with me now that I am so soon to leave. ’ 
And Marguerite ran to open the door. 

Judging from the tone of both ladies as they entered, their dissi- 
pation had been rather a failure; at least, Mrs. Danby was complain 
ing peevishly of fatigue, and Georgy, in no pleasant voice, was ex- 
pressing hendisgust for some person or persons unknown.” 

“ I knew them so well at Baden-Baden, and afterward at Bou- 
logne, and to-night they scarcely looked at me — never, returned my 
bow. What are you doing. Marguerite, up still? Go and cut me 
some sandwiches, and move quick, miss.” Pushing her rudely 
aside. “ I want to come in and warm my feet.” 

“ I have something to tell you, Georgy.” 

“ Move away. Miss St. John,” cried Mrs. Danby’s sharp voice. 

“ This dog again!” as Bello’s gaunt face peered through the open 
door. “ For the last time, I say, I will not suffer it.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Mortimer!” exclaimed Georgy, in a suddenly cheerful 
voice, as she caught sight of him, “ I did not know you were here. 
Marguerite, love, why did you not tell me?” 

They both entered and shook hands with Mortimer, who greeted 
them in his usual quiet way. “ An unexpected pleasure! You did 
not tell me that Mr. Mortimer was coming to dine with you, dear,’^ 
said Mrs. Danby. 

Danby knew what that “dear” portended, and replied, “ Ko^ 
ma’am; Maggy and I were so tired when we came in that we forgot 
all about it, didn’t we, Maggy?” He looked and spoke nervously, 
wondering all the time how his wife would take the news, and what 
his own life would be for some months after the stock-broker had 
proposed for “ Maggy,” not Miss de Burgh. 

“ Take away my cloak. Marguerite,” whispered Georgy; she had 
of late tried to convert Marguerite into a sort of waiting-maid for 
herself. “ And tell me how my hair looks.” 

“ Very uncurled,” Marguerite replied, meekly, taking away her 
cousin’s wraps, and laying them on a table. “ But it does not much 
signify. Have you had a pleasant evening?” 

“ Kever mind,” was the rejoinder; but in a tone too low of course 
for the guest to hear. “ How dare you sit alone in this way when 
there was a visitor? Your face so red, and your hair all flung about 


201 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


in that ridiculous manner. You shall have it cut before you go out 
as governess.” 

” Georgy, don’t be angry with me. I shall not trouble you long 
now.” 

Mortimer heard her voice in a second, and came a step nearer. 

” Miss de Burgh, it seems you are to lose your young friend soon, 
^’’ou will be lonely without her.” 

Georgy was sweet and affectionate in a moment, and regretted 
that circumstances compelled dear Marguerite to go out on the 
world, and so on. 

” Well,” returned Mortimer, “ most young ladies go out in a sim- 
-41ar way, and appear rather anxious to do so than otherwise.” 

Ah, yes; and Marguerite is very patient, poor thing.” 

” I hope her patience will never be so much tried again, Miss de 
Burgh, as it has been lately. ’ ’ 

Marguerite!” said Georgy, looking round sharply at her, with 
an expression that plainly said, “ have you dared to complain?” 

“Explain, Maggy, explain,” Danby interrupted. “Mortimer 
and Georgy are at cross purposes.’'’ 

“The truth is, then,” said Marguerite, very calmly and quite 
composed, as she addressed herself to both the women, “ all my 
prospects have changed this evening. After you had left I thought 
deeply over what you have so often recommended to me, and decid- 
ed it would really be best to follow your advice — although Cousin 
Danby would not hear of it — and become a governess. I mentioned 
this before Mr. Mortimer, and — you will scarcely believe in such 
kindness — he has asked me to marry him, and live in his house for- 
ever.” 

“ Mr. Mortimer — to marry you!” gasped Georgy. 

“Impossible!” said Mrs. Danby. 

But Mortimer’s face soon showed them that it was only too true; 
^nd they had to force out something like congratulations. 

“You must really excuse our surprise,” said Georgy, at length, 
with a desperate attempt at sprightliness; “ but we have always 
looked upon you as such a confirmed old bachelor, Mr. Mortimer. 
However, I hope your marriage may prove a happy one.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am; I believe it will. /, at least, have every 
prospect of happiness, if Miss St. John can be content;” and he 
^rew Marguerite to him and laid his hand on her shining curls. 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


26 ^ 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

There were few preliminaries to be gone through before the mar- 
riage. Mortimer wished it to take place at once : and Marguerite 
did not plead for delay. He made the most ample unconditional 
settlements upon her; took a new house at Wimbledon, with gardens 
and conservatories to suit her taste; bought pianos, pictures, books. 
— everything that could externally make the home of a young girl 
happy. 

And Marguerite? She was very calm at first. Simply and child- 
ishly happy in the thought of her release from the He Burghs, or 
the prospect of being a governess, deeply grateful to Mortimer for 
his kindness in marrying her, and giving her such a home; and for 
some tifUe she connected all this scarcely at all with Philip and the 
unaltered love she still bore him. But as the day approached, 
when the wedding-dresses were actually being made, and the thought 
was realized of her approaching marriage, her spirits sunk, her color 
went and came, her manner was fitful and nervous. 

“ You are not repenting your decision, Maggy?” said Danby, one 
evening, when they were alone, and he had been intently watching 
her face for some time. “ It is still not too late.” 

” My decision — about what, cousin?” with a slight start. ” Had 
I anything in particular to decide upon to-day?” 

“ I was not speaking of silks and pearls, or patterns of damask 
and ormolu. Marguerite; but of the great decision — your decision of 
marrying Mortimer. Ho you ever wish it revoked?” 

“ISTo,” answered Marguerite, slowly, and without raising her 
head; ” it was to be, I suppose. I had no other prospect; and Mr. 
Mortimer seems very well content. 1 am sure Mr. Mortimer will be 
kind to me. I heard from Manon, my nurse, to-day, in answer to 
my announcement, and she is so delighted, and thinks it such a 
good thing for me. Although she is only a servant, Manon is very 
sharp-sighted, and I am glad to hear her opinion. How much she 
will think of me next Thursday.” 

“Next Thursday!” repeated Hanby. “Only three days morel. 
She has never known love,” he thought, as he continued to watch 
her almost infantine face. ‘ ‘ She can not realize the sacrifice of all 
such feeling that she is making in marrying an old man. Her per- 
fect ignorance will be her safeguard.” 

The two following days passed by — the evening before the marriage • 


'266 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIFPE. 


came — and Marguerite was looking at the white silk and orange- 
hlossoms she was to wear next morning. A vague, wild hope was 
there, that yet it would never he; that at the last, something would 
liappen, some one die— Philip appear, and tell her that he was free, 
and she would marry him. She could not feel that to-morrow she 
would be Mortimer’s wife; and once, when she woke suddenly from 
a dream of old days in the night, the desperate thought crossed her, 
even now, to break it all off — return and live at Kersaint with 
Manon — do anything, rather than place another barrier against the 
possibility of ever becoming Philip’s. But with the morning came 
Georgy to help her to dress, and she heard the unusual stir of serv- 
ants in the house, and the sun shone cheerfully into her room, as 
with a good omen for her happiness, and the half-formed resolve 
vanished. 

You do look well, I must confess,” said Miss de Burgh, when 
the bride’s dress was completed. “ Toilette de Mariee is so exactly 
suited for peach-colored complexions and downcast blue eyes. I 
never could look the bride that you do; and then, as you don’t in- 
tend to cry, the effect will not be spoiled. Most girls cry, you know, 
and red eyes are the result; but that is not your style. ” 

When girls are leaving home,” said Marguerite, gently — so 
gently that even Georgy softened — ” I can imagine their crying, but, 
there is nothing to make me shed tears.” 

Your home has not been too happy here, I must confess.” 

“ Oh, my cousin Danby has been very kind; and, if you have not 
liked me, perhaps it has been my own fault. I hope you will often 
come and see me now.” 

Upon which Miss de Burgh kissed her with great unction, and 
was sure, if she had ever hurt dear Marguerite’s feelings, she 
wished to be forgiven. 

Marguerite being of course still in mourning, the wedding was to 
be a very quiet one; so there was only a small party at breakfast. It 
went off as such things generally do. Miss Georgy was in an hys- 
terical kind of good spirits, Mortimer radiant, Danby very silent; 
but Marguerite, who had kept up pretty well hitherto, grew paler 
as the day proceeded; and when, at last, her lace and orange-flowers 
were exchanged for a traveling dress, and the moment arrived for 
her and Mortimer to leave together, the very hue of death was upon 
her face. He felt her tremble violently as she entered the carriage, 
partially saw the stricken expression of her features when she first 
found herself alone with him, and thought it was all girlish timid- 
ity. 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIFFE. 


267 


“ Philip, till this moment I never knew half my love for you!’^ 
was her thought. 

And so they started for their honey-moon in the Isle of Wight. 


CHAPTER XXXVIl. 

For some time after Philip’s arrival in Rome, he was as silent and 
misanthropic as is the wont of disappointed lovers. His experiment 
of going into the world again had proved so signal a failure in Paris 
that he now went into the opposite extreme, shunning all compan- 
ionship but that of Neville and a few of his artist friends, and wan- 
dering like a ghost among churches and picture-galleries, taking 
lonely rides in the Campagna, and being excessively brief with any 
unfortunate English people who made advances to him. When, 
by chance, he was forced into any kind of society, he compared the 
English women he met with Marguerite, and they disgusted him. 
Their faces had no glow, their voices no music, after hers; and he 
came back to their lodgings — Neville and he lived together — in- 
variably with a fresh accession of ill-humor on these occasions. 

“ You should go more among foreigners, Phil,” said Neville, one 
evening. “ You would get on better with them; and the Italian 
women would be sure to like you, with your pale face and senti- 
mental conversation.” 

‘ ‘ Let us speak of a more interesting subject, Neville. I am weary 
of the whole sex — English, French, or Italian.” 

'' A la bonne heure ! I wish from my soul you were. But you 
are only in a state of rebound. I know you so well. Just the state 
from which men fall into their worst errors. Some pretty face will 
arise, and undo all your woman-hatred in an hour. The carnival is 
next week!” 

I shall go into the country while it lasts. It makes me sick to 
see the buffoonery with which human beings can be amused.” 

Well, I am one of the common her<i; I shall lock up my studio, 
and be as happy as any school-boy of fourteen. It does the eye and 
brain good to be relieved from work a few days; one returns to it 
with such zest afterward. And then there are groups of form and 
color to be seen in the carnival better worth studying than the old 
masters themselves.” 

“You have such an object in life, Neville! Everything is sweet 
to you that can minister in the slightest degree to your one passion 
— ambition.” 




PHILIP EAKHSCLIPFE. 


‘‘ Why do you not call it love of my arl? But you would be far 
happier too, Earnscliffe, with any ‘ one passion,’ as you are pleased 
to term it. Your longing for distinction was feverish once; but, as 
«oon as won, you are wearied of it, as of everything else!” 

‘ ‘ I have not wearied of anything. Exactly that of which I could 
never weary, I have never possessed.” 

The reason why you think it beyond the reach of satiety.” 

“You have never loved, Neville. It is a subject utterly beyond, 
-or beneath you. ’ ’ 

“You are wrong, both in fact and inference. I have loved, and 
with an intensity equal to your own — perhaps greater, for I have 
only loved once, and I have analyzed the passion as deeply as 30U 
liavedone.” 

“ Neville, you have actually loved!” 

“lam past thirty. ” 

“ Oh, of course, every man feels what he dignifies by that name. 
Not one out of a hundred love.” 

‘ ‘ I have, and have been deceived, like the rest of us. But to re- 
turn to yourself. You believe that if you had possessed the object 
of your last adoration (you have made such half-confidences that I 
shall probably, unwittingly, hurt your feelings), your heaven would 
have lasted; that, having lost it, you and she will be eternally mis- 
erable. My friend, you will be a very happy man five years hence, 
when you have passed the age of sentiment, and are beginning to 
care for position, and have entered the House and shone in your first 
speech; and as to the young lady, perhaps she is married by this 
time— at all events, she will not be constant to your memory for a 
year.” 

“ She may marry: she will not forget me!” replied Philip. 

‘ ‘ And so add another to the scores of guileless young creatures 
who every year swear to love and honor one man with the warm 
words of another yet thrilling in their heart! I thought your idols 
were all perfect, Phil.” 

‘ ‘ This one was! Too perfect for you and me to speak of, Neville. ’ ’ 

“ Thank you. Well, we will profane her no longer. Come and 
tell me how you like my last sketch. ’ ’ 

Philip rose to look, and their conversation dropped for the pres- 
ent : but the next morning, when they were wandering beneath some 
ruins a few miles from Borne, he returned to it. 

“ Neville, tell me more of your own love. I am in a state when 
it is pleasant to hear of the disappointment of one’s friends!” 

Neville seated himself on a broken fragment of marble, and 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


269 


leisurely drew from liis pocket, first a cigar-case, then liis sketch- 
book. 

I will talk of my love, mon amiy if there is any chance of cur- 
ing yours by doing so; but I must smoke and sketch at the same 
time. It is a subject that sends me to sleep by itself : it requires ac- 
companiments. ’ ’ 

“ Give me a cigarette, Neville.” 

“ Ah, you are mending! You have refused to smoke hitherto.” 

“ The open air — the fact of lying at one’s length among the daisies 
— makes smoking a necessity.” 

“ Don’t apologize. I have seen you look enviously at my meer- 
schaum every evening for the last week, and knew what was com- 
ing. I can not conceive why you ever gave it up. In my troubles 
— when the committee of the R. A. rejected my first picture and 
hung my second ten feet high in the* octagon room, for example — I 
smoked more fiercely than ever.” 

And in your love affair?” 

Neville smoked away in silence, and half- closed his eyes, as 
though intently watching the effect of light and shadow upon the 
blue Campagna, but there was a dreamy look upon his face. 

‘'It was years ago,” he exclaimed, suddenly; “I was quite a 
boy.” 

” And which was false? — or was either?” 

Philip, it is not a pleasant remembrance: but as you seem to 
-care about it, you shall hear. I started in life young: you remem- 
ber what I was when I. left Harrow. I came at once to London, 
with few friends, no connection; and I had to make my way alone 
unassisted, except by my own energy. 

“ I lodged in the house of a Scotchwoman, a widow, and a person 
of a certain position in life. She kept a kind of boarding-house for 
young men — medical students, young artists like myself, who pre- 
ferred this kind of life to common lodgings or chambers. The house 
was respectable; I was recommended to it by decent people; and 
everything was in appearance quiet and as it should be. 

“This Scotchwoman had an only daughter, a girl of seventeen, 
lovely as an angel, with fair, bright hair 'and Madonna-like eyes, 
that seemed too soft to refiect any human passion. All the young 
men in the house admired her, of course : but I, before I had been 
there three weeks, was wildly in love with her. I could neither eat 
nor sleep; I trembled if her dress touched me as she passed; it mad- 
dened me if she spoke or smiled with another man. She haunted 
me till I could not draw a line; and my companions ail used to 


270 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 


laugh at my white face and my altered manner. In short, I loved 
her as boys can love. 

‘ ‘ I got over my timidity and spoke. She trembled, she flushed, 
faltered, and burst into tears. ‘ It was madness; we must not thinls 
of it. We were so young. But she loved me!' I went half wild 
with excess of happiness. 

With stolen interviews, a whispered word when we passed each 
other on the stairs, a pressure of her hand night ^nd morning, I was 
forced to be content for some months. But at length I grew impa- 
tient. I told her that I would wait no longer; either she must fly 
with me and become my wife by a Scotch marriage, or I would 
leave her forever; I could not live on in the same house any longer 
and be as strangers. She hesitated, wavered, consented to become 
mine, Phil, even now I feel the rapture of that moment.” 

Neville drew his wide, artist-hat more over his eyes, as though to 
shade them from the slanting sun, and leisurely cut one of his pen- 
cils, but his hand trembled very slightly. 

“We planned to go to Scotland, and be married; then return at 
once, and ask her mother’s forgiveness;- and I should work for both, 
and we should all live happily together. This was the project. As 
you may imagine, I had very little money — not enough to take two 
people half-way to Scotland; and, with much shame, I was obliged 
to confess this to my beloved, and to tell her that a few days’ delay 
would be necessary for me to try and obtain sufficient for the jour- 
ney. To my surprise, she answered by taking a little purse full of 
gold from her pocket, and laying it in my hand. ‘ It was a present 
from her godfather. She had had it for years. ’ 

“ I don’t know whether the circumstance aroused any suspicions 
in my mind, or whether it was a kind of natural instinct; but, after 
I had taken the purse and carried it away with me, I felt strangely 
excited and ill at ease. Though I believed her implicitly, the 
thought would arise, ‘ Why had she so much money? was it girl- 
like so quickly to offer it?’ 

“We had settled to elope that very night, and I had gone out of 
the house to evade suspicions, but was to return silently when every 
one was still, and we should then steal out together. I remember I 
walked on and on through the crowded streets, but saw nothing 
that was passing around; I felt dull and stupefied, as though under 
the influence of some narcotic. I at length turned my steps home- 
ward, resolving to remain quietly in my own little attic at the top of 
the house until the appointed hour. 

“ I entered with my latch-key, and met one of the woman-serv- 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


271 


ants in the passage. ‘ Where was Mrs. M ?’ I asked, as coolly 

as I could. ‘Gone out,’ ‘And Miss V ‘Oh, in her own 

room; she was not very well/ This was so exactly like the plan 
we had determined upon, that I felt reassured, and ran upstairs 
toward my own room, when, on the second floor, 1 heard voices 
that arrested me in a moment. Hers — I should have known its 
slightest sound among a thousand — and that of a man. 

“Her own room was on the first floor; that from whence the 
voices came was a small sitting-room of her mother’s, to which none 
of the boarders were usually admitted. I walked up to the door. 
I stood still there, and listened (for the only time in my life, Phil, it 
was excusable at such a moment) — listened and heard — thank God! 
not my shame, for she was not yet my wife. 

“ I must tell you there was one inmate of the house, toward 
whom I had always felt an uncontrollable dislike, a young Pole of 
high birth, and rich, but who was boarding in the family for the 
sake of learning English. He was there some months before I came, 
and I had never anything to do with him; but a certain air of im- 
pertinent superiority in his manner made me conceive an instant dis- 
like for him the first day we met. I never saw him speak to Miss 

M , beyond a passing word of recognition at dinner, if he was 

placed near her. Indeed, she seemed less friendly with him than 
with any of the other young men, toward most of whom I had in 
turn entertained some boyish jealousy. 

“She loved him. Had loved him long — guiltily, as 1 knew the 
first moment I heard the tones of their voices together. And the 
money that was to have assisted in making her my wife came from 
him! 

“ ‘ Difference of position,’ I heard him say, ‘ would not allow 
him to make her the reparation of marriage. But Neville will do 
it, ’ he added, laughing, ‘ and w’e can hoodwink him hereafter, as 
we have done already. ’ 

“I entered the room at once; not bursting with fury, as 5'-ou 
might imagine, but quite cool and collected; only 1 felt that my face 
was bloodless, and my teeth clinched. 

“ ‘ Good God!’ she exclaimed, starting up, and advancing toward 
me for a second, then shrinking back to him as though for protec- 
tion. I only looked at her once — never spoke to her; but I walked 
up to him. 

“ ‘ Monsieur Neville, your return is unexpected, and, permit me 
to say, undesirable. You have mistaken your room, I think. ’ 

“ Phil, I wonder I did not kill him, for I had the strength of a 


PHILIP ♦ EARKSCLIFPE. 


272 

young Hercules at all times, and now the whole fire of my nature 
was up! I dragged him to the top of the landing— lost though she 
was, I respected her presence sufficiently for this — and then, I re- 
peat, I wonder I did not kill him! When his cowardly white face 
was undistinguishable from the mass of blows I had rained upon it,. 
I hurled him with all my force .down- stairs; and have a dim recol- 
lection of women shrieking, and doctors being sent for, and Mrs. 

M wringing her hands as she came in and found her best lodger 

lying a bleeding mass in the passage; but 1 left the house without 
even collecting my things, and saw none of them again. 

“Of course, I expected to hear from the count, for he wasn’t 
dead; but no message came, and one of the other boarders, a fellow- 
student of mine, told me they seemed anxious to hush the matter 
up, and prevent it from being known out of the house. 

“ Two or three days afterward I discovered the purse still in my 

pocket, and sent it back to Miss M by my friend, who was just 

going to leave for Italy; and from that day I never have known 
what became of her, or whether the mother had connived at the 
whole thing or not. In short, I had never heard their name, nor 
have breathed it until now. But, Phil, I have never loved again. 
Zoved, mind; for that was pure, perfect love. I have felt as others 
do a dozen times. 

“ Pah! my cigar is out. Give me a light, old fellow, and let us 
go on before the noonday heat. I can finish my sketch at home.” 

They walked on silently for some time, then Philip exclaimed, 
“ But you must admit, Keville, that yours was an entirely excep- 
tional case, one from which no sweeping deduction can be drawn.” 

“ Yes, in the utter depravity of so young a girl, it was excep- 
tional. Without precisely resembling my own case, however, are 
there not thousands of others where one or both have been as miser- 
ably infatuated, then deceived? Look at yourself, you have been 
so a dozen times already.” 

“ Ah! but none of this dozen was the true one. You confuse the 
Eros with the Anteros. I have not been deceived now.” 

“ Well!” replied Neville, impatiently, “ but something — circum- 
stance — Fate — what you will, has stepped in and thwarted your de- 
votion and your happiness. Give up such love, as I have done.- 
Be content with the common hopes, the coarser pleasures of human- 
ity.” 

“ I wish I could,” returned Philip. 

* * * * * •?«• 

Late in the evening of this day, when Neville was at work, and 


PHILIP EAEi^’SCLIFPE. 


273 


Earnscliffe, lazily outstretched, was reading the English papers, an 
exclamation broke from him which made the artist start round. 

“ Good God! Neville, she is married!” 

The “ Times ” fell from his hands, and Neville, picking it up„ 
read at the head of the list of marriages- “ William Charles Morti- 
mer, of Portland Place, London, and Chestnut Grove, Wimbledon,. 
Esquire, to Marguerite Lilia, only child of the late Percy St John,. 
Esquire, of Kersaint Manoir, Brittany.” 

“ It is soon, Phil; sooner than I expected. But it was sure to be 
so; and these things are much better ‘ got over ’ at once. If your 
wife had died you might have married Miss St. John, and both have 
been wretched for life — it is much better as it is.” 

“ She will not forget me!” ‘said Philip, abstractedly. 

“ The devil she won’t!” exclaimed Neville. A pleasant pros- 
pect foi William Charles Mortimer, of Portland Place and Chestnut 
Grove! However, I suppose you will return to life, now that the 
dream is over. ” 

” It is not over. My love was just as hopeless before as it is now 
that we are both tied, yet I indulged it.” 

“ Well,^for everybody’s sake, it is to be desired that you will keep 
away from England — for the present at least. When Mrs. Mortimer 
is an elderly matron, with grown-up children, you might see her 
again with safety. ’ ’ 

“ I have no wish to do so, I can assure you. Except an occa- 
sional visit to my uncle, while he lives, I shall spend my life 
abroad.” 

” A few years of it only. The objectless, nugatory life of conti- 
nental Englishmen would not suit you after thirty, as it may now. ’ ^ 
I shall begin a new book to-morrow,” said Philip, after a long 
silence. 

“ Bravo! You would not have written for six montlis to come 
but for Miss St. John’s marriage. And, Philip, I predict that this- 
will be your best work — better even than that famous one wdierein 
you felled and trampled upon all your great friends. I suppose 
womenkind will come in for their share of sarcasm in this?” 

“ On the contrary, there will be very little about them. I am 
weary of the subject.” 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

Two years had now elapsed since Marguerite’s marriage — two 
uncheckered and serene years, wherein no one month had greatlj 


274 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE. 


differed from the preceding or following ones. But surrounded by 
all that wealth can give, and Mortimer unchanged in his kindness 
and devotion, her life palled heavily upon her. The worn-out 
simile of a bird imprisoned in a golden cage could never have been 
more aptly employed. She rose each day, and her French lad^^’s- 
maid attired her in her elegant morning dress; she breakfasted with 
Mortimer from Sevres and Dresden, after which he started for the 
city, and then she had only herself to please for the remainder of 
the day. She might look at her costly rooms, or walk into her con- 
servatories and gaze at their rare contents, or order her carriage or 
her horse, or play on her magnificent piano, until dinner-time; 
then Sevres and Dresden and her husband again. After dinner she 
fell asleep, and there was the evening to be passed in somewhat 
the same manner as the morning. 

Oh, how she wearied of it all! With a feverish longing she would 
think of her old free life, that sweet, untrammeled liberty of her 
childhood, and feel how gladly she would give all that she now 
possessed to return to it. No flower in her conservatory gave her 
the pleasure of those wild-flowers on the Breton heaths. She felt 
that her life was void; and although her great sweetness of temper, 
and the real regard and gratitude she felt toward Mortimer pre- 
vented her manner from ever expressing discontent, there were 
often times when her youth would rise irresistibly strong within 
her, and the want of her existence became an actual pain. The in- 
distinct yearning she had experienced at Kersaint, before she ever 
knew Philip, returned now with tenfold strength; for this vague 
desire was no longer without an object. Marguerite, in the interval, 
had loved with all the strength of a deep and fervent nature; and 
her heart actually sunk, as she looked forward to years and years — 
her whole life, in fact — still spent in the same way as now. No 
other love than what she felt for her husband, no higher object than 
her own amusement. 

Her husband’s acquaintance were, for the most part, men of about 
his own standing; he had never cared much for women’s society, 
and knew little of their wives and daughters; and the few families 
they did visit were none of them congenial to Marguerite. Once or 
twice a month he dined out; occasionally they had a dinner-party 
of old men at home. The conversation, on these occasions, as may 
be conceived, was not of a nature likely to afford her much interest. 
The presence of Georgy de Burgh was quite a relief to her at these 
festivals, especially when Mrs. Danby was not able, from her deli- 
cate health, to attend; and Marguerite was only too happy to lend 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


275 


her her carriage or riding-horse, or to send her bouquets of hot- 
house flowers; she was quite glad when these things could give any 
one else more pleasure than they did herself, and had long forgiven 
the petty slights which Georgy had shown her in her cousin’s 
house. 

“ Are you very happy, dear?” inquired Miss de Burgh, as they sat 
on the sofa, after one of Mortimer’s dinner-parties, and while the 
men were still in the dining-room; “ you look so pale to-day.” 

“Happy!” Marguerite started and colored. “ Oh, yes! He is 
very kind lo me; I have everything I wish.” 

“I see — under similar circumstances, I be happy. You 

think too much of Philip Earnscliffe, dear.” 

‘ ‘ Georgy ! — indeed—’ ’ 

“ Ho, Marguerite; don’t deny, nor wince, as if I had done you 
some dreadful injury. I do not blame you in the least; still it is a 
pity that you should do so. You are quite losing your fine color, 
and look years older already.” 

“lam glad of it. It makes the difference seem less between Mr. 
Mortimer and myself. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, oh. Marguerite! I can not believe that you wish to pass for 
a ‘ Goody Two-shoes;’ but every one else will, if you talk in that 
way. Fancy a woman of your age liking to look old! The fact is, 
you are too much moped — no going out, no society (for these fusty 
old dinners are worse than nothing). Why in the world don’t you 
go to the opera, like other people?” 

“ Well, I have thought of it; but Mr. Mortimer comes home tired, 
and we dine so late — and, besides, I do not think he cares much for 
music — I mean, not as I do.” 

‘ ‘ But these are no reasons why you should not go. So fond of 
music are you, it is absolute cruelty that you never have an oppor- 
tunity of hearing it.” 

“ I should like it very much indeed,” said Marguerite, her eyes 
glistening. “ How kind of you to think of it for m.e!” 

“ Nothing about my own place in your box,” thought Georgy. 
Then aloud — “ Well, dear, I really do not like to see you leading 
such a lonely life. I shall speak to Mr. Mortimer about it this very 
evening.” 

“ Oh, I will ask him, thank you. He would prefer it from me. 
I need only go on those evenings when he dines out, so he will not 
miss me. And would you come with me the first time, please? I 
have never been to a theater in my life?” 

“ To be sure I will,” Georgy cried, delighted at the success of her 


276 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


maneuver. “ There is to be ‘ Lucia ’ to-morrow, and it will be a 
benefit night in addition. Make your husband take us places for it, 
even if he can not decide about a box.” 

“ Oh, I know that he will get a box the very day I ask for it,” 
returned Marguerite, simply. ‘ ‘ It gives him such pleasure if I ex- 
press a wish for anything.” Her face was still lit up with the 
ehild-like pleasure the thoughts of the opera had awakened, when 
some of the men entered. Mortimer was one of the first. He came 
to his wife in a second, looking, with his red face and portly fig- 
ure, as unlike her husband as possible. 

‘ ‘ How merry you seem. Marguerite. Miss de Burgh, you must 
come and see us oftener. You brighten up my poor lonely wife.” 

“ Ah, we are conspiring,” said Marguerite, with her sweet smile. 

Perhaps you will not be so well pleased when you hear what we 
are speaking about. ’ ’ 

Try me. I am not often offended with you.” 

Well, T am so very fond of music, and — Georgy has been say- 
ing that the opera would be such a treat to me sometimes, if you 
thought you would not mind taking a box for me.” 

Mortimer looked delighted. Although he was always trying to 
please her. Marguerite would seldom ask him for anything. 

‘‘ Come here, Danby!” he cried to his friend, who had just en- 
tered, “ and see how we are all changing. Your demure little ward 
lias just asked me to get her a box at the opera!” 

‘‘Ah! Georgy must have had a hand in that, I suspect,” said 
Danby. “ Madgey never heard of operas at Kersaint. Did you, 
Mrs. Mortimer?” 

“ Never — that is — ” her perfect truthfulness compelling her to 
Speak. “ Cousin, I did hear of them once,” and Marguerite blushed 
deeply. 

“ Well, there was no great harm if you did, child,” said her hus- 
band. “ What are you looking so red for?” 

“Who used to talk of operas at Kersaint?” went on Danby. 
“ Philip Earnscliffe, I suppose.” 

Oh, what would Marguerite have given to master herself better! 
When Earnscliffe’s name was mentioned, or even any subject that 
remotely bore upon him, the blood would always rise crimson to her 
very temples, and her hands turn cold in a second. Was she never 
to overcome her old girlish feelings, now that she was another 
man’s wife? 

“ Come here, Marguerite,” cried Georgy, who was watching her 


PHILIP EARHSCLIEFE. 


277 


narrowly, ‘‘I want you to tell me about your new songs, and to 
know if you can lend me some waltzes?” 

Marguerite felt only too thankful for the interruption, and going 
quickly to Miss de Burgh’s side, leaned down over a heap of new 
music until her long hair almost covered her burning face. 

“Take any you like, Georgy,” she said, in a low voice. “I 
have not even tried them over yet. Mr. Mortimer brings me some- 
thing new every day.” 

“Marguerite,” interrupted the other, in a whisper, “you are 
very demure, and very excellent; but if I were your husband I 
would not wish Philip Earnscliife to appear in London. ” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

IVhen her toilet was complete the following evening. Marguerite 
surveyed herself with more pleasure than she had felt in her own 
appearance since her marriage; and, devoid of vanity though she 
was, she could not be insensible of her own extraordinary beauty. 
Her luxuriant hair was partly gathered round her head, partly fell 
upon her neck, in a style peculiar to herself, and a magnificent set 
of i^earl ornaments—a present from her husband that day — well be- 
came her youth, and fair, satin-like skin. In her bosom was a 
houquet of rare hot-house flowers, all white. 

“ Am I, indeed, as beautiful as Philip said?” she thought, 'when 
her maid had left, and she was waiting for the announcement of 
the carriage. “ What would he think of me now?” 

She started and turned from the glass, as her husband’s step wsls 
heard entering her dressing-room. 

“Well, Madgey, child, how do you look in your finery? Not so 
bad, upon my word!” He drew her to him, and kissed her fore- 
head. “ You seem very happy, little woman, at going out alone for 
the first time.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Mortimer! I should be more glad if you were coming 
too.” 

‘ ' Q uite sure. Marguerite ? ” 

“Quite; I mean” — with her usual sincerity — “if it 'were any- 
where but to the opera. But perhaps I sJiall enjoy that more 
alone, than if you were there, and I knew you were wearied to 
death with the music.” 

Mortimer looked the least in the world disappointed, then he re- 
plied, kindly, “ Marguerite, you are a good child to speak the exact 


278 


PHILIP EAENSCLIPFE. 


truth. It is not likely that what pleases you should me. See the 
difference between us!” He pointed to a cheval-glass where the twa 
figures stood reflected. “ What do we look like, Madgey?” 

“ Father and daughter, sir: I have always said so. And no fa- 
ther,” she added, gently, “ could ever have been kinder to a child 
than you are to me, or have more merited her gratitude.” 

“ Ah, Marguerite! if I was a younger man you would feel very 
differently. Gratitude never enters into love, I am told. How- 
ever, you know nothing about that ’ ’ — she turned her face quite 
away — and, perhaps, you are as happy as many w^ho make love 
marriages. At all events, what has never been felt can not be 
missed!” 

“I have every reason to be happy,” said Marguerite in a low 
voice; “ I have no wish ungratified since I have been your wife.” 

” W^ell, enjoy yourself as much as you can to-night. I hope the 
opera will be a new source of pleasure to you; perhaps you have 
been too much alone hitherto.” 

Georgy was ready dressed when the carriage stopped in Tavistock 
Street, and appeared in high spirits when she jumped in. 

” Marguerite, how exquisite! I never saw those pearls before.” 

“ Mr. Mortimer gave them to me to-day.” 

“ And that darling little cloak?” 

“ Another present.” 

‘‘ And your lorgnette, and your bouquet; oh, and mine!” as Mar- 
guerite gave her one containing all the rarest flowers of the season, 
and Miss Georgy held it up to the light. “ People say riches can 
not make happiness! I am sure they could make mine! I hope we 
shall be in a good place! You will create quite a furor with your 
style — and— your newness! Perhaps you will condescend to say 
what you think of me. ’ ’ 

Georgy was really looking very handsome in a pink satin dress, 
unusually decollete, and a profusion of diamonds in her hair. Her 
high color, jetty curls, and cool, undaunted air, formed an admira- 
ble foil to the delicate hues of Marguerite’s complexion, and her 
youthful, girlish manner; and when they entered the box, which 
was one of the best and most conspicuous in the house, they did, to 
Georgy’s intense delight, create quite a sensation. 

” Who is she?” — “ What is she?” passed from mouth to mouth, 
the moment Marguerite appeared, and always with the same reply. 
No one knew. The overture was nearly over, but Margurite’s at- 
tention was instantly riveted to the music; and, listening to Grisi and 
Mario, such a new world of delight, such undreamed-of enjoyment 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIPPE. 


279 


opened upon her, as would have paralyzed all power of expression, 
had she attempted to give utterance to her feelings. Her eyes 
glistened and the color went and came in her cheek, as she leaned 
forward, her hands clasped together over the front of the box, in an 
attitude of the most unconscious attention, while the eyes of half 
the men in London were fixed upon her. 

At length!” exclaimed Georgy, as the first act ended. “ I have 
Slacken to you in vain about eight times. How, will you kindly be 
a little more like other people? Perfect though hands may be, it is 
not usual to clasp them together at a theater as though you were 
praying. And so very unconscious of all the men who are staring 
at you!” 

“Hands — praying!” echoed Marguerite, dreamily. “Oh! 
Georgy, have I done anything improper?” 

“ Hot at all, dear! You have succeeded, however, in being sin- 
gular; and, as every lorgnette in the pit appears to be upturned to 
your face, you are probably satisfied. ’ ’ 

Unwilling though she might have been to offend a connection 
who would take her to the opera, and ask her to dinner, this young 
creature’s jealousy could never repress itself at Mrs. Mortimer’s 
superior beauty; and Marguerite, feeling by the tone that she meant 
to be spiteful, colored deeply as she leaned back in her chair. The 
flush remained on her cheeks, making her tenfold lovelier, and 
people looked at her more than ever. 

“ How every one looks at me, Georgy!” she whispered. “ It is 
not very polite of them to do so, even if they see how unused I am 
to these places! Have I done anything strange?” 

“ For pity’s sake, remember there is no one to hear, and do not be 
so simple with me,” replied her companion, harshly. “Accept 
your role of new beauty, and play it through. The men will not 
look at you half so much when you are known, or some new face 
has arisen to eclipse yours.” 

“I hope not,” answered Marguerite, quietly; and then (seeing 
that Georgy was not in the sweetest of tempers at the small atten- 
tion her own satin and diamonds excited) she remained silently gaz- 
ing about the house, whose lights, and tiers of brilliant women, 
seemed like the realization of one of her childhood’s fairy tales. 

In the next box to their own was one individual whose eyes scarce- 
ly for a second had quitted Marguerite’s face; but it was not until 
the middle of the performance that her own glance carelessly rested 
upon him. For an instant her heart leaped wildly — she thought it 
was Earnscliffe! The delusion was momentary: it was one of those 


280 


PHILIP EARIS’SCLIFFE. 


accidental likenesses more of contour and general style, than of 
feature, or even expression; still, it was sufficiently strong to arouse 
a thousand old feelings in Marguerite; and, even while Mario was 
singipg, to make her glance timidly at the stranger’s face. 

“Do you know him — do you know him?” whispered Miss de 
Burgh. “ You seem to he looking at him a great deal.” 

“ I — oh! I know no one; but I should like to know his name.” 

Georgy knew: she knew everything. “ The Marquis de St. Leon 
—a young man of very high birth, and rich. I wonder whether he 
remembers me! I danced in the same quadrille with him one even- 
ing, three or four years ago, at Homburg! I shall bow when he 
looks next!” 

“ Please do not bow, Georgy,” returned Marguerite, quickly. 

“ Why not, Mrs? Mortimer? May not one person, out of all your 
admirers, be permitted to look at me?” 

Marguerite felt that their neighbor was not looking at Georgy; 
but she was silent, knowing that in her present temper, any opposi- 
tion would make her more resolute, and also that it was not in the^ 
De Burgh nature to let a living marquis be unmolested, if there 
were the slightest clew to acquaintanceship. 

Not until the conclusion of the act could Georgy attract the atten- 
tion of the young Frenchman, who was still intently watching Mar- 
guerite’s averted profile, while he apparently listened to the music; 
but when at length the curtain fell, and Marguerite leaned back, so 
that her face was hidden from him, his eye casually rested on that 
of Miss de Burgh. She bowed, and smiled in a moment. The mar- 
quis half rose, and made a profound salutation, but with the most 
unequivocal look of surprise, for of course Georgy’s face was 
utterly foreign to him; and this circumstance, united to her general 
appearance and dress, gave him at once an impression the exact 
reverse of favorable of the lady. 

“ Orisi est ravissant ce soir, monsieur,'^ leaning over toward him. 

“ Mats ouiy onadame!'' with a stare of astonishment at her 
coolness. 

“ I see. Monsieur le Marquis, that you do not recognize me.” 

He was about to reply in a strain more complimentary than re- 
spectful, when he glanced toward Marguerite — who felt what was 
going on, and her blush of shame— her innocent young face — made 
him retract his unfavorable opinion of her companion. 

“ Mad, probably,” he thought — “ utterly mad, like all other En- 
glish women.” Then aloud, “Madame, I must infinitely regret 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFFE. 


281 


that I do not recall to myself the exact circumstances under which 
I formerly had the honor — ” , 

“ It was at Homburg!” cried Georgy, delighted with her prog- 
ress. '‘We used to meet nearly every evening at the Kursaal, and 
once, Monsieur le Marquis, I had the pleasure of dancing with you 
at a grand ball given to the Duchess Stephanie!” 

The pain on Marguerite’s face was now becoming so evident that 
the marquis told Georgy he remembered her perfectly, and that his 
near sight must plead his excuse for not having done so sooner; and 
he was soon so polite, and so evidently anxious to improve the ac- 
quaintance, that Georgy grew radiant — not considering how small a 
share she had in the cause of his empressement. 

They continued talking for some minutes, and then Georgy 
touched Marguerite’s arm, thinking it must appear strange to the 
Prenchman that her companion looked so steadily away from him. 

‘‘ Monsieur, allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Mrs. Morti- 
mer, nee De Josselin St. John.” 

The marquis slightly started, then bowed very gravely. De 
Josselin!” he repeated. 

“Her mother’s name,” Georgy hastened to explain. “The De 
Josselins of Beau Manoir in Brittany — a very ancient family. ’ ’ 

“ I may then claim relationship as an introduction,” he remarked, 
in an extremely different tone to that light, easy one in which he 
had been chatting with Miss de Burgh. “ My father and the moth- 
er of madame, were, if I mistake not, cousins german.” 

“ And we are all related!” cried Georgy, “how delightful!” 

But Marguerite looked at him very earnestly, and with the most 
perfect simplicity, said: 

“ Monsieur, it gives me real pleasure to have met you. You are 
the first of my mother’s family I have ever seen.” 

“I must demand a thousand pardons,” said the marquis, now’ 
speaking in his owm language, and bending toward Marguerite, “ for 
having looked so often at your face this evening; but I have been 
vainly endeavoring to recollect where and when I have met you 
before. Now the mystery explains itself. I am in possession of 
a miniature, in which there exists the most extraordinary likeness to 
3’ourself, and that miniature, madame, is the portrait of your moth- 
er, Lilia de Josselin, taken in her early youth!” 

“ My mother’s portrait!” repeated Marguerite, eagerly. “ Ah, I 
possess no likeness of her!” 

“ And is she no longer living? Pardon me, but it is years since 
I heard news of any one bearing the name of De Josselin.” 


282 


PHILIP EABKSCLIFPE. 


‘"My mother died when I was horn, monsieur.” The tears 
started to her eyes. 

“ Need I say the pleasure it would afford me to he allowed to re- 
store the picture to one who has so strong a claim upon it?” 

“Would you really give it me? I scarcely like to roh you of 
such a treasure!” 

“I prize it,” replied the young man, gravely, “as having be- 
longed to my own father, who valued it above everything on earth ; 
hut it would give me infinite pleasure to see it in your possession.” 

“ Then come and see us to-morrow, and bring it with you, if 3’^ou 
will, indeed, he so generous. Oh! this is unexpected pleasure. 
How much I shall have to tell Mr. Mortimer!” 

“ Can it he possible that she is married!” thought St. Leon. 
“ She has the face and simplicity of a child. And what a face!” 

His manner soon displayed such intense admiration that Miss 
Georgy, although well content that she could claim any connection 
with a marquis, felt by no means pleased at the turn things were 
taking, and the earnest conversation in 'which she bore no part. 

“You are forgetting the beloved music, it appears,” she 'whis- 
pered maliciously. 

Marguerite felt her meaning, and turned away toward the stagey 
but her heart was full at the unexpected meeting with one of her 
o'wn race and nation, and for a moment she could hardly repress 
tears at Georgy’s unkindness — for she always could discern by the 
tone one of Miss de Burgh’s little implied sarcasms. Soon, how- 
ever, in the absorbing interest of the last scene in that touching 
opera, into which Grisi’s genius throws so deep a pathos, she forgot 
eren her new cousin; and when the last notes of “ Lucia ” died 
a'way. Marguerite was trembling and breathless with excitement. 

“ Is it over?” she said, turning nervously round. She was look- 
ing so strange that Georgy was startled, and exclaimed : 

“ Heavens! Marguerite, what ails you? — are you going to faint?’ ' 
And the marquis, who had already risen to depart, bent toward them 
and inquired anxiously “ if madame was ill?” 

“Oh, no,” returned Marguerite, trying to smile; “I am only 
rather nervous. It is very foolish, I know; but this is the first 
opera I ever saw.” 

“You silly child!” said Georgy. “ Did 5^ou think Grisi was really 
dead?” 

“ If I might presume to offer my escort?” St. Leon hesitated. 

“ We shall be really grateful, ” returned Georgy, promptly; “ for^ 
strange to say, we are alone this evening.” 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


283 


He joined them at the door of their box; and they were soon en- 
deavoring to make their way through the crowded lobby. 

“ Lean on me, madame, I entreat,” he said to Marguerite. “You 
look terribly overcome.” 

“ It is nothing,” she whispered; “ only a passing faintness. I am 
unused to these great crowds, and shall be belter the moment I 
breathe the air. ” 

Just then one of Georg3^’s former friends happened to pass them 
on his way out; a j^oung lordling it was that she had once picked 
up in Switzerland, when he was still in jackets, and with whom she 
had contrived at intervals to keep up a bowing acquaintance ever 
since. Seeing her with the new beauty, and accompanied by so 
well known a man as St. Leon, he condescended to be civil, and 
the^^ shook hands— the lady very warmly. 

“ What an age since I have seen you, Miss de Burgh! Will you 
take mj^ arm? it’s too crowded for three. Good-evening, marquis. 
Deuced hot, ain’t it?” 

St. Leon answered with a stately bow. He was however, over- 
joyed to get rid of Miss de Burgh, and be able to devote all his 
attention to his lovely companion. 

When they reached the vestibule, Georgy and her young friend 
were nowhere to be seen. 

“ They are probably in advance,” said St. Leon. “ Let me con- 
duct you outside for a few moments; the air will refresh you. In- 
deed, unless you wait very long, you will probabl}^ be obliged to 
walk some distance to your carriage, owing to the crush to-night.” 

The cold night air revived Marguerite instantly. ” I am better 
now,” she said, glancing up at her cousin. His figure looked so 
like Earnscliffe’s, seen in that uncertain light, that involuntar% her 
hand pressed upon his arm — then trembled a little. 

“ That is right,” he answered. “ Let us walk on, madame, some- 
what apart from the crowd. The air is the best thing for j^ou now, 
and it will give your friends time to join jou; they are probabl}^ de- 
tained by by the crowd.” 

Miss de Burgh was not likely to hurry when resting on the arm 
of a lord; and it was fully twenty minutes before they all met. 
During this time the marquis had learned the name of Marguerite’s 
husband, and their address, and had promised to bring the minia- 
ture the following day, “if madame would do him the real favor 
of accepting it.” And her glistening e^^es, as she turned to 
thank him, were sufficient reply. After Miss de Burgh had joined 
them, they had still to walk to the carriage at some little distance. 


284 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


And all this time the young Frenchman was thinking that he had 
never, in all his experience of beauty, met with any woman to com- 
pare to his English cousin, and complacently exulting at her very 
amiable reception of himself; while Marguerite’s quiet reflection 
was, “He is like Philip — certainly like him, but not a hundredth 
part so handsome or so noble-looking; all the fine intellect is want- 
ing, and the resemblance half pains me for its incompleteness.” 

When they were on their way home. Miss Georgy displayed a 
great accession of spirits. 

“ What a delightful evening — a lord and a foreign marquis! I saw 
those odious Miss Malcolms looking at me as we came to the car- 
riage. They were stalking by with their mother, like three great 
specters in the moonlight, and no vestige of a man with them. 

Lord was so attentive, and he is coming to call. I heard you 

asking the marquis. Do you admire him, Mrs. Mortimer?” 

“ Yes — or rather there is something about him which attracts 
me.” 

“ Indeed! Well, you are candid.” 

“ A nameless something. 1 can not explain what it is, Georg}^”' 

“ Do not trouble yourself; I perfectly understand. Heigh hot 
here we are at my hideous old home. Thank you for my pleasant 
evening. Marguerite, and take me again as soon as you like.” 

And Miss Georgy, yawning extensively, ran up the paternal door- 
steps, leaving Marguerite to drive home in the moonlight with the 
sweet notes of “ Lucia ” still vibrating through her brain; and the 
voice, not of St. Leon, but of Philip in her heart. 


CHAPTER XL. 

From that evening a new life seemed to have opened for Mar- 
guerite. Delighted that, at length, something could be found afford- 
ing her real pleasure, Mortimer insisted upon her frequently going 
to the opera; and it was a source to Marguerite of such genuine,^ 
unmixed enjoyment, that soon these two, and often three evenings 
in the week, were looked upon as a matter of course, and anticipated 
each time with all the zest of a child. 

She loved music passionately, she went for the music, and list- 
ened to it as few English people can listen — came home to dream 
of it, and sing what she heard to her own piano, and for herself. 
Her voice had greatly improved; and after the constant instruction, 
for two years, of the best masters in London, Marguerite now sung 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


285 


as not many in private life are ever heard to sing. She often 
thought of Philip’s prediction about her voice, and wondered, with 
a half sigh, what he would think of her now that she had so much 
improved. 

Of Philip himself she never heard. One long letter he had writ- 
ten her from the Tyrol, two or three months after they parted — a 
letter that had been read and reread until known by heart, and then 
stored away with her other most precious relics— but after this she 
heard no more. Still, however, she thought of him — still was his 
name never forgotten in her prayers — still his books were treasured 
—and all this with the most entire unconsciousness of WTong. But,, 
perhaps, that which kept Philip’s image most strongly alive was the 
likeness that she traced to him in her cousin. 

The young marquis called on the following day after their first 
meeting, with the portrait of Mrs. St. John, and Marguerite had 
received him with all the unreserved cordiality of a relation, and 
made him stop to be introduced to Mortimer, and dine with thenu 
From that day he became intimate at the house. Although his- 
society possessed no charm for Marguerite, she liked him. He was 
refined, well-educated, superior to every one' else around her, and 
had all those minute graces of conversation and manner in which a 
well-bred Frenchman excels. But he was artificial, and to Mar- 
guerite this deprived him of all the interest he might otherwise have 
inspired. Everything that in Earnscliffe was natural, St. Leon 
seemed to have learned. Although he was never vapid — seldom 
actually commonplace — he rarely said anything forcible or striking. 

“ I shall be jealous of your handsome French cousin, little wife,’’* 
said Mortimer, one evening. Marguerite, accompanied by Georgy 
and St. Leon, had been spending a long morning at the Exhibition. 

“ Jealous, sir! — surely you can not mean it. Do you wish to be 
like Gaston?” 

‘‘ Not that kind of jealousy, my dear. Jealous!— jealous of his 
being your companion so often.” 

Mraguerite laughed. “ Don’t you think Georgy de Burgh would 
like to marry him?” she asked. 

” I think Georgy would marry any one.” 

” Oh, yes; but I sometimes think she really likes Gaston.” 

” And do not you, Maggy?” looking rather earnestly in her face. 

” Yes — I like him — very much, at times; and then, he is my 
only relation, except my cousin Dan by. But he seldom really in- 
terests me. This morning, among the pictures, even, I forgot so 
often what he was talking about. When we were looking at that 


286 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIPFE. 


exquisite thing, ‘ The Awakened Conscience, ’ I had just read all the 
story of the girl’s life in her suddenly anguished face, and, turning 
to Gaston, I began telling him it; when he interrupted me, and said, 
‘ the finish on the carpet was painted d rmirV It was so like him. 
He can not appreciate the wild-flowers in my wilderness half as 
much as the rare exotics in your hot-houses, sir.” 

Well, I don’t blame him there,” said Mortimer, complacently. 
“ Our flowers at Wimbledon are the finest of any near London 
(without doubt the young man never saw anything like them in his 
own country, for all he’s a marquis); and your wilderness, as you 
call it, Maggy, is a horrid damp hole. However, if he does not like 
your weeds, I am sure you seem to like the same books; for I find 
you reading together, or talking of what you have just read, when I 
come in.” 

Yes,” said Marguerite, smiling, “but we never agree in our 
criticisms. Gaston always admires the very parts that I pass over, 
and detests anything like sentiment, which, you know, I do like.” 

“ Poor Maggy! you like what you don’t understand. But I am 
glad to hear I need not be jealous.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Mortimer! what is Cousin Gaston to me?” And the 
perfect truth in her face must have dispelled it, if a slight shade of 
jealousy had really crossed his mind. 

“It was very kind of him, though,” Marguerite went on, “to 
persuade this grand countess to call and invite me to her house; but 
I don’t care much about going. I am not shy; still I tremble a lit- 
tle at appearing among hundreds of strangers, and knowing no one 
but Gaston. I wish you would go, Mr. Mortimer; it is not too late 
for you to change your mind.” 

“ My dear, I am not suited for the Countess of E ’s parties. 

With your beauty and manners, you are fit company for the queen; 
but it would spoil the effect for me to be shown as your husband. 
Besides this, I’m not fond of music, and ten to one but I should fall 
asleep when some of the grand singers are in the middle of their 
bravuras, or else clap my hands when I ought to be silent. No, 
child; go and enjoy yourself. I shall be quite content with your 
description to-morrow morning. It is time for you to dress. Mar- 
guerite. Go and see how grand you can make yourself.” 

“ I do not care about it,” she replied, slowly preparing to leave 
the room. “I would much rather be going to the opera.” 

“ But I care for it,” said the husband. “ With your own appear- 
ance, and my money, jon ought to be in the best society in England!” 

From the first moment he knew her, St. Leon had longed to see 


PHILIP EAKIs’SCLIPPE. 


287 


his lovely young cousin in the same world as that in which he him- 
self moved. With Mortimer’s great wealth, the'‘fact of his being on 
’Change was a misdemeanor it was just possible for the English 
aristocracy to forgive; and, for some months past, he had been 
thinking over every possible plan for obtaining an introduction for 
Marguerite to the house of some of the leaders of fashion, whose 
mj^stic stamp would afterward enable her to pass current among the 
confrerie of London exclusivism. At length he had been partially 

successful. The Countess of E , at whose house he had long been 

intimate, was about to give the largest musical entertainment that 
had been attempted during the season; and at this entertainment St. 
Leon determined Marguerite should be. 

“ Your party will be charming,” he said to the countess, as he 
sat next her at a dinner-party the day after the cards were issued. 
“ All parties at H House must be so. But as yet your invita- 

tions have not included the best amateur voice in London.” 

Is it possible? I thought I had asked every one.” 

‘ ‘ But this is ' no one. ’ ’ ’ 

‘‘Ah! The fact is, marquis, I have often attempted those sort of 
people at my large musical parties; but they are invariably fail- 
ures.” 

“ But the lady I allude to is ‘ no one ’ in the language of London 
life; but I have the honor of being her very near relative,” re- 
marked St. Leon, a little stiffly. 

‘‘ Oh, a foreigner! But, do you know, my dear friend, that that 
makes all the difference. A foreigner may be of the highest rank, 
yet not have chanced to bring introductions to England. I shall be 
delighted to make the acquaintance of your charming relation.” 

The countess had three exceedingly plain daughters, and lost no 
opportunity of being gracious to young men of good property. 

‘ ‘ My cousin is, however, married to an Englishman, ’ ’ St. Leon 
pursued, demurely; ” Mr. Mortimer, a very rich stock-broker.” 

” Heavens; what have I got into!” thought the lady. “ It will 
be such a crush,” she mentally added, ” that perhaps these dreadful 
people will not be seen, or pass for professionals.” Then aloud, 
‘‘You must tell me Mrs. Mortimer’s address, or write it down for 
me. My poor head is so overladen with names of people I care 
nothing about, I may forget those whom I should like to know.” 

But St. Leon did not allow her memory to fail in this instance; 
and a day or two afterward, to Marguerite’s surprise, the card of 

the Countess of E was left in Portland Place, accompanied by 

an invitation to H House, for the 15th of the following month. 


288 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIFFE. 


What does all this mean, Gaston?” she cried, when he paid his 
next visit. I am sure you know something about it.” 

“ It means this: — The Countess of E is one of the leaders of 

your London society, and has so constantly heard me speak of my 
accomplished cousin, Mrs. Mortimer, that at length she has vent- 
ured to call and ask you to her house: when she sees you, she will 
find how great a gainer she is by the introduction,” 

“ Fi done! You have so often promised to pay me no compli- 
ments. Am I really to go, Gaston? — do you think Mr. Mortimer 
would like it?” 

Mr. Mortimer ! — toujours Mr. Mortimer! can you never pro- 
nounce for yourself what you would like, ma cousine ?” 

Well, I think I wish to go; but he will decide best — he is so 
sensible!” 

And Mortimer, who soon afterward came in to luncheon, gave his 
opinion, with very little hesitation, in the affirmative. Marguerite 
thought St. Leon’s account quite simple about Lady E — -’s wish to 
know her: but her husband was more flattered and pleased at, the 
unexpected grandeur than he cared to acknowledge. To do him 
justice, the feeling of gratification was for her, not himself; and he 
hastened that very afternoon to order her new diamonds and a new 
dress, in his desire that her first appearance should be a brilliant 
one. 

From the beginning Mortimer very sensibly declined the invitation 
for himself, and said his pleasure would be in Marguerite’s enjoy- 
ment. But, when in her sheen of white brocaded silk and diamonds 
— and, moi’e than this, in her glorious bloom of youth — she entered 
the dining-room for his approval on the evening of the concert, the 
natural thought crossed him of the admiration and flattery to which 
she would be exposed, and the charm this new life must soon pos- 
sess for one so young as his wife; and something painful was in the 
thought. 

“ Marguerite, you are indeed magnifleent! Dress and diamonds 
can add even to the perfection of your face. We grow more like 
Beauty and the Beast every day!” 

” Mr. Mortimer, I will not hear you say those things; tell me you 
do not mean it, sir!” coming close to him, and looking steadily in 
Ills face. Does it give you the slightest pain my going without 
you to this grand party?” she added. 

“ No, Maggy. * Have you ever known me so selfish?” 

She did not reply, but still looked at him very earnestly, as 


PHILIP EAEUSCLIFFE. 


289 


though striving to read the expression of his face; then she repeated, 

I wish I had not decided upon going.” 

“ What! when it gives me such pleasure?” 

“Yes; I feel that it would be better for me not to go.” 

Was it some unbidden presentiment of the future, some dim fore- 
knowledge that in the great world of London life she would again 
meet Earnscliffe, that influenced Marguerite as she spoke? 

The carriage was announced, and her husband led her to it; then 
kindly kissing her, bade her be happy, and sing her very best. 
Afterward, with dignifled pride, he told the coachman to drive to 

H House. But, wLen he returned to the empty dining-room — 

still thinking of his wife, and this new sphere of admiration and ex- 
citement into which she was thrown — there was a mixed feeling in 
Mr. Mortimer’s appreciation of their freshly arisen grandeur. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

There was actually a hush of admiration when Marguerite made 

her appearance in the Countess of E ’s stately reception-rooms, 

unattended, unknown; but with the quiet self-possession that was 
innate in her, and covered with diamonds that might have formed 
the dowry of a young duchess. 

Lady E was exceedingly civil in her reception of Marguerite, 

and her regrets that Mr. Mortimer was unable to come; for St. Leon 
was already at her side, and hearing every word she uttered. 

“lam really indebted to you,” she whispered to him (but so loud 
that Marguerite heard it). “ At the close of a season, such a face, 
such matchless grace as your cousin’s, is indeed refreshing among 
all ihe well-known pale faces of London! Mrs. Mortimer, allow me 
to introduce my sister to you — Lady Millicent Gore.” 

A pale, interesting-looking woman, seated near the countess, 
bowed to Marguerite, and made room for her by her side. ‘ ‘ My 
sister is so engaged in receiving her guests, that you must allow me 
to take her place in introducing you to our friends, Mrs. Mortimer. 
As a foreigner, most of the people about you must be strangers.” 

“I know no one, madame, except Gaston,” glancing at her 
cousin, who remained hovering about her, as though to afford her 
encouragement. “ I have never been out before!” 

The lady, of course, thought she meant in England, and returned, 
“ I fear our English society will not please you as much as your 

own. All my early life was spent abroad, and when I flrsl returned 
10 


290 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


to England, I was incessantly struck with the great difference in 
the tone of our manners — the want, abore all, of that perfect ease 
and absence of restraint which characterizes good foreign society, 
that of Paris especially.” 

‘ ‘ I was never in Paris. Until I came to England, all my life 
was spent in Bretagne.” 

Gaston advanced to her side. 

” More of the old noblesse of France, and of their old courtly man- 
ners, yet linger in Bretagne than in any other of our provinces, 
madame,” he said, addressing Lady Millicent. 

“So I have heard; and that strangers are very rarely admitted 
among them. From what part of Brittany do you come, Mrs. Mor- 
timer?” 

‘ ‘ From the very wildest part of the extreme west — a part that few 
English people, I find, have ever heard of.” 

“ You speak English so well— with scarcely any foreign accent.” 

“ My father was English — so either language is familiar to me.” 

“ You speak it better than your cousin,” said Lady Millicent. 
“ The marquis has an excellent accent, but he has not our idiom.” 

“No,” replied Marguerite; “and he will always render French 
idioms into English, word for word. Gaston, do you hear that mine 
is pronounced the best English? We often argue that point.” 

Some acquaintances of Lady MillicenPs stopping to speak to her, 
her attention was taken from Marguerite, who turned toward St. 
Leon. “Gaston” (in French), “how kind of you to be here 
already for my sake! I know that you dislike going to early par- 
ties. ’ ’ 

“ But you do not want my protection. Marguerite. You look as 
composed as though you had been to every party this season.” 

“ I do not feel so, I can assure you. My heart beat violently 
when I came in. Do you know, at the very last, I tried to persuade 
Mr. Mortimer to accompany me?” 

“ Thank all the gods he stayed away,” thought Gaston. “ Ah! 
you will not mind going out alone* the next time,” he said, aloud. 
“ Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute!” 

“Yes, that is all very well; but I do not suppose I shall have any 
more invitations. Ah, some one is going to sing — who is it? I surely 
remember that handsome face. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That handsome face belongs to Mario, madame. He and Grisi 
are going to sing a duet.” 

“ And I shall be expected to sing in the same room with them. 
Oh! 1 do feel shy now.” 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


291 


“ More than you did at the prospect of singing before dukes and 
countesses? You told me yesterday you had no dread at all/’ 

“ Before them, certainly not. They may know no more of music 
than I do, but before great artistes— yes, Gaston,” in a low voice, 

‘ ‘ I should like to be introduced to them. ’ ’ 

” N’en parlez pas, ma cousine! One is not introduced to profes- 
sional singers! If you ever require them in your own house, you 
will engage them, and pay them so much a night. You do not sup- 
pose that they are acquaintances of the Countess of E ?” 

“ Hush! they are beginning. Ah, now for real enjoyment!” 

After the duet, which was delicious, a great amateur harpist per- 
formed a long piece, with the assistance of an amateur pianist, df 
immense execution and no taste (all of which Marguerite thought 
remarkably unpleasing). Then the Duchess of Somebody sung — 
very mildly; then Herr Some One Else played on an extraordinary 
instrument, that he had been fifteen years in constructing, and fif- 
teen more in learning to play; then Lady E came to Margueiite. 

She had been introduced to several people in the meantime by Lady 
Millicent and Gaston, and was now surrounded by a little circle — a 
Russian prince, an English earl, one or two younger sons, St. Leon, 
of course, and a celebrated author. To the latter she was speaking, 
with much more animation than to any of the others. She won- 
dered whether he had ever known Earnscliffe! 

” Mrs. Mortimer, I have come to claim your kind promise. Mar- 
quis, will you take Mrs. Mortimer to the piano?” 

Lady Millicent good-naturedly followed, thinking Marguerite 
must feel timid amidst such crowds of strangers. “ Shall I stand 
beside you?” she whispered. 

” Oh, if you will be so kind, I should gi’eatly prefer it! But I 
am not very nervous now.” 

Have you notes?” asked Gaston, much more flurried than she 
was, about her success. 

“ No; I never use notes. What would be best for me to sing?” 
(to Lady Millicent). ” Italian or English?” 

” Italian, perhaps, as the last song was an English one; but let 
your taste guide you.” 

After a few bold chords — she seldom played the regular written 
accompaniments to her songs — Marguerite began an Italian bravura, 
and in a second every one seemed electrified. Marguerite never 
sung better in her life. Constant attendance at the opera, and first- 
rate instruction, joined to singular natural ability, had give her an 
artiotic style of expression almost unknown among young ladies — a 


292 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


Style which made even Grisi rush hastily to the concert-room, to see 
if some new singer had arrived beside herself. During amateur per- 
formances, the artistes usually waited in perfect resignation, and 
without hearing a note. 

“ Ecco una voce! Gran’ Dio! Ecco una voce!” Could Mar- 
guerite have seen the face of the great artiste, her triumph would 
have been far greater to herself than it was at all the praises that 
were showered upon her at the conclusion of her performance. 

Lady E was almost in tears of delight that such a dehut should 

have been made in her house, and seized both of Marguerite’s hands 
as she was going to rise from the piano. 

“One more, Mrs. Mortimer— only a little ballad — anything you 
like; but really we can not so soon lose your exquisite voice!” 

Marguerite smiled, and reseated herself. 

“ One of your Breton romances,” whispered St. Leon, close be- 
side her. He knew too well the secrets of effect not to be aware 
how a plaintive ballad would tell after the Italian bravura. 

She chose, this time, the wild dir£:e she had sung to Earnscliffe 
on the first evening he had ever heard her; and, perhaps, that recol- 
lection gave more than usual pathos to her voice. The lights, the 
strange faces around her vanished. She was by the open window 
again at Kersaint, with the summer sunset streaming into the old 
room, and gilding the graceful outline of Philip’s figure, as he stood 
in the deep embrasure watching her. When she concluded, amid a 
universal and genuine murmur of applause, the only w^ords she 
heard were those of St. Leon. 

“Thank you. Marguerite.” His voice sounded so exactly like 
Philip’s that she turned round with a start, and something in her 
cousin’s attitude at the moment completed the resemblance. 

“Phil — Gaston— oh! cousin — I mean.” Her color w^ent and 
came, and a sudden emotion shot through St. Leon’s heart. He 
was no coxcomb, but, while handing Marguerite to her seat, he 
ventured, very slightly, to press the little hand upon his arm. 

“ How you blushed. Marguerite, as you finished your last song; 
w^ere you conscious of it?” 

“ Ho— yes. Oh, Gaston, my thoughts were far away.” 

“You are complimentary, madame. Am I completely beyond 
consideration?” 

“ Why, I see you every day, dear Gaston. You know I could 
not be thinking of you.” 

“ What a dreadful coquette!” remarked some well-trained English 
girls, who were watching Marguerite and her cousin. ‘ ‘ Look at 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFPE. 


293 


the way she smiles and beams up in that man’s face! But then all 
French women are the same. And a married woman too, which 
makes it worse!” 

‘ ‘ Let me take you to supper, ’ ’ whispered Gaston. ” I see our 
hostess bringing up some one to introduce to you, but remember 
•that you are engaged to me,” 

* * * * . * * ■* 

From that evening Marguerite became the fashion. Much as we 
talk of exclusiveness, our aristocracy is probably less exclusive than 
any other in the world; and great wealth or great talent can at any 
time gain admittance more easily into London society than into that 
of half the capitals in Europe. Marguerite, too, had riches, talent, 
beauty; and, at least, on her mother’s side, high birth. And be- 
sides all this she was half a foreigner — a circumstance which in 
itself casts down many barriers in England — so her husband’s busi- 
ness and himself were tacitly ignored by the great people who 
wished to secure Mrs. Mortimer for their parties. He was asked, a& 
a matter of course, but had the good taste invariably to decline; and 
3Iarguerite gradually became accustomed to go everywhere alone. 
The slight feeling of uneasiness he had experienced on her dehut 
wore off, as he perceived how little her new kind of life altered his 
wife. She told him so exactly the admiration she received, the 
compliments that were paid her — poor Gaston included— that it 
would have required a more suspicious nature than even Mortimer’s 
to harbor any feelings of jealousy: and he was soon prouder than he 
.chose to confess of his wife's success, and of her entrance into 
” grand society. ” 

” But, Marguerite,” he said, one morning at breakfast, as she de- 
scribed some brilliant ball on the previous evening, “does not the 
thought often cross your mind, among all these handsome young 
men, of your old plain husband at home, making you wish that 
you had not chosen so young, and before you had seen anything of 
the world? Confess, Marguerite, such is sometimes the case!” 

‘ ‘ Never, Mr. Mortimer. I have never yet met any one among 
them who really interested me. I still like Gaston far the best 
among all the young men I am acquainted with— and you know 
precisely how I feel toward him.” 

“ Then, Maggy, must I believe that your heart is preoccupied?” 

“ I believe it is so, sir,” she replied, in a very low voice. 

Mortimer knew not the unacknowledged memory which made all 
others seem so poor and weak compared to it, knew not that his own 
strong safeguard was in the shade of liis wife’s old lover! 


294 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 


That season passed away, another came, and Marguerite’s popu- 
larity rather increased than waned. Her extraordinary voice made 
her a welcome acquisition everywhere; and the whole musical world 
were now as anxious to engage her for their concerts as they were 
to get Grisi or Alboni. 

When Georgy said that the world and amusement would soon • 
efface Marguerite’s recollection of Philip, she was, to a limited ex- 
tent, correct. To forget him was not in Marguerite’s nature — to 
love again was impossible; but she had not now the time to think 
of him as formerly. The desire of distinction that lies dormant in 
every human heart, desires which, had she married Earnsclitfe, 
w^ould never have germinated in hers, now took the place of a softer 
interest in life. Young, gifted, and admired beyond the usual lot. 
Marguerite was happy, if such a life can ever make a woman’s hap- 
piness; at all events, her existence flowed smoothly on, and no longer 
stagnated as in the first dull years of her marriage. 

As may be conceived, Georgy de Burgh and her mother made in- 
defatigable efforts to get acquainted with “great people” on the 
strength of their dear Marguerite’s success. But this she knew 
from the first was impossible; and Mortimer at length made one or 
two such unmistakably plain speeches on the subject (when they 
had been wearying his wife with supplications to get them invited 
to Lady Someone’s ball), that they had taken serious offense; and 
although Danby still continued to call as usual. Marguerite now 
saw little of either of the ladies. 

But St. Leon was a most constant visitor at the Mortimers’. His 
relationship gave him, of course, a claim to more than ordinary in- 
timacy, and, whatever his inmost feelings might be toward Mar- 
guerite, he had as yet so scrupulously concealed them, that she liad 
not the slightest conception of anything more than friendship on his 
part. Her own manner to him continued the same as it had always 
been — quite open and unconstrained. As she had told Mortimer, 
she preferred her cousin to any other man with whom she was ac- 
quainted, and, perhaps, had her heart been wholly unoccupied, 
there might have been danger in this constant intimacy. Remem- 
bering Philip, however, she saw precisely where Gaston was shallow 
and unreal; if his voice softened she knew he was acting; if he read 
to her, or sung to her, or walked with her, she remembered how she 
had done all this once before with Philip beside her, and the present 
seemed in a moment as a faint, cold shadow compared to that warm 
and golden past. 

And yet, while Philip’s recollection always stood between T'l;; • 


PHILIP EARNSCLIPFE. 


295 


guerite and St. Leon, the resemblance, real or fancied, which she 
traced to Earnscliffe in his features, was the greatest interest her 
cousin possessed to her; and a sudden look or expression of his 
would often so bring back Philip and old days, that — utterly unable 
to master her emotion— she would blush and tremble, just as she had 
done years before at Kersaint! These blushes, these tremors, fatally 
misled St. Leon. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

Foim years passed away after Earnscliffe had parted with Neville 
in Rome before he returned to England. The first eighteen months 
he had spent in Italy and Greece; the latter part of the time in the 
East among the wildest, least frequented districts of Arabia and 
Syria. During this period, but only at intervals, he had continued 
to write, and each successive work bore evidence of deeper thought, 
and was imbued with a healthier tone than had characterized even 
the best of his earlier writings. In this long intercourse with nat- 
ure, freed from the enervating influences of social life, Philip had 
regained much that the world, with its pleasures and disappoint- 
ments, had taken from the fresh genius of his youth. In the ab- 
sence of all human companionship, he had created for himself a 
wild and lonely peril,' that was eminently calculated to strengthen 
into self-dependence his formerly yielding, somewhat indolent char- 
acter; and he was now returning home, unconscious of the change, 
with renewed ardor and ambition, and his whole moral being braced 
in a manlier, more vigorous tone. 

An event had occurred, too, during this interval, which, Philip 
was oblisred to confess removed his strongest reasons for living 
abroad, and his morbid distaste for England. He was once more 
free! After three years of ill health, spent, first in the spendthrift 
grandeur of her father’s house, then in poverty, uncheered by either 
affection or respect. Lady Clara died. Earnscliffe did not hear of 
her death without a certain emotion, although it was impossible it 
could cause him anything like real grief. He had written to his 
wife after Lord St. Leger’s break-down, offering all the assistance 
in his power, and entreating her to receive some allowance from 
him. “ For my sake I ask you to accept it,” he had written, “ for 
the sake of our childish days. Show sufficient generosity to give 
me this pleasure!” But, whatever softer feelings Clara’s better 
nature may have prompted, the letter remained unanswered: and 
Philip heard of her no more, until he accidentally read the an- 


296 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


nouncement of her death in an English paper at Smyrna. She had 
then been dead some months; and, by the following spring, Earns- 
cliife finally quitted the East, and resolved to return for good to his 
own country. 

Although, in his exile, he had often tried to persuade himself that 
deserts were far more suited to him than cities, he could scarcely 
repress the pleasure with w^hich he once more found himself in 
Paris. 

He met several old faces among the idle crow’ds on the boule- 
vards; but not one that lighted up with an expression of recognition 
at seeing him — (Philip w^as greatly changed, sunburned, and 
stouter, and a beard of two years’ growth completely metamorphosed 
the once soft, dreamy character of his features); and, at last, he 
turned into a solitary dinner at Les Trois Freres, where he was soon 
obliged to allow that coquilles de votaille k la financi^re, epigrammes 
d’agneau, and merigues glaces, tasted excellent, after the wild meals 
improvised by himself in Arabia Petreea; and that chablis and hock 
were preferable to black coffee and arrack of the desert. 

“ Keville was right,” he thought. “ I remember, he told me that 
at five-and-thirty I should have done with sentiment, and be glad to 
return to the substantial things of this world. I am not quite so 
old, but I have certainly no sentiment left; and, as for the world — 
gargon, bring me the bills for the theater to-night.” He glanced 
over the names of the performers, and it gave him an odd feeling to 
perceive that they were nearly all strange ones. “ I am like an 
unrolled mummy, or Robinson Crusoe,” he thought, “ on the earth, 
but not belonging to it. I wonder what has become of Celeste and 
Fridoline and poor little Rose!” And Philip sat long over his 
dessert, thinking of his old loves, as he sipped his wine, but looking 
by no means miserable. 

“ Eh, mon Dieu, est il possible?” burst at last from the lipS of a 
Frenchman who was taking coffee at another table, and had been 
intently watching him for about half an hour. “ Can I really see 
Monsieur Earnscliffe?” coming up to- him with both hands ex- 
tended. 

After a second’s hesitation, Philip recognized a rather silly look- 
ing young man. Monsieur Deschamps by name, with whom he had 
formerly been slightly acquainted in Paris; and, glad to meet with 
anything that connected him with the land of the living, he cor- 
dially returned the friendly greeting of the Frenchman. 

” I am surprised that you know me,” he remarked; “ several of 
my countrymen passed me to-day, with no signs of recognition. ” 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


297 


“ Until I beard you speak to one of the gartjons, I was uncertain; 
but I could not be mistaken in tbe tones of your voice. My wife— ^ 
I am married now — has often said to me, ‘ Monsieur Earnscliffe’s 
was the only pleasant voice she ever heard in England. ’ ’ ’ 

“ I congratulate you on your happiness. But, have I indeed the 
honor of being an acquaintance of Madame Deschamps?” 

“ My wife’s former name was Mademoiselle Celeste — ” 

“Celeste!” exclaimed Philip. “ Do you mean — ” 

“Yes, monsieur, the celebrated Celeste. But she has long since 
abandoned the stage,” he added, with dignity. “ Half the year we 
liye on our estates in Normandy, the other half in Paris; and we 
shall be charmed to see you chez nous Hotel Rohan, Rue St. Maur, 
Faubourg St. Cermain. Indeed, to-night is one of Celeste’s recep- 
tions, and I am sure she will be delighted to see again so distin- 
guished a personage as Monsieur Earnscliife.” 

Philip bowed to the compliment, and promised to call at the Hotel 
Rohan in the course of the evening. 

“ You will, meet several of j^our compatriots; for Celeste admits 
many strangers to her societies, in consideration of the happy years 
she spent abroad, especially in your country. Lady Kentish and 
Mrs. Dodd Tracey are of her friends the most intimate.” 

It was late when he arrived, and the guests were long assembled. 
The house of Celeste’s husband was exactly such a hotel as used to 
be considered aristocratic in “ the Faubourg ” — entre cour etjardin 
— and dull, huge, and damp. It had been purchased from some 
ruined family by the father of Monsieur Anatole, and he considered 
that it gave a kind of halo of good birth to reside there himself: 
although poor Celeste’s own. taste moie warmly inclined to a cheer- 
ful, noisy apartment in the Faubourg St. Honore. 

Celeste knew Earnscliffe instantly; and advanced with a blush 
and exclamation that were not acted to meet him. “ Oh, Philip!” 
in a very low voice, “ this unexpected!” 

He told her in two words of his meeting with Monsieur Des- 
champs, and how gladly he had availed himself of his invitation. 

“ You must stop till all these people are gone,” she replied, still 
in the same tone. “It is already late, and then we can talk over 
old times. But the world, and your compatriots especially, are so 
censorious, that I must not even appear glad to see you now. Let 
me introduce you to some of your own country people!” 

“ Who in the "world can all these people be?” thought Philip, 
after he had looked about him. “ They certainly look respectable.” 
He did not know anything of a certain class of English in Paris, 


298 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


or lie would have felt no surprise at seeing them at Celeste’s house, 
or anywhere else. A class made up of odds-aud-ends of society — 
Mrs. Dodd Traceys and Lady Kentishes — who, for some little rea- 
sons, are just not received in London, hut manage to pass current 
better abroad — these — and others brought by them and of a still 
more mystic origin — constituted Celeste’s British guests. 

Her husband— who had married her in a silly freak, or perhaps 
with the wu’sh to do something remarkable — was really a man of 
tolerable property, though of low birth; and some of his connections 
— decent shop-keepers mostly — made up the French part of the com- 
pany, and were looked upon by the English as models of foreign 
breeding and high birth. Better bred they certainly showed them- 
selves than his owm countr}" people; for, wiien Earnscliffe’s name 
w^as known, the latter all crowded round him, and solicited intro- 
ductions, until he w^as literally bored to death. And it w^as with 
the feeling of the most intense relief that he w^atched the last of 
them— Mrs. Dodd Tracey — depart about midnight, and found him- 
self alone among the chandeliers with Celeste. 

“You have growm so handsome, Philip — I can call you so when 
no one hears : but you look much older. ’ ’ 

“You are still handsome. Celeste; and look younger than ever.” 

She shook her head and smiled; but then said her quiet life now 
wras, of course, less wearing than it used to be wiien on the stage. 

“ And happier?” 

“ Oh, yes! — I was getting tired of acting, and ovations, and sup- 
pers, and all the rest of it. And now I have everything I like, a 
very nice house, as you see — only rather dull — a dear little carriage 
of 111}’ own, and — better than all — a son two years old, with black 
eyes and long hair, beau comme un ange. I should like you to see 
him. But sit down — not there — here, where I can see you, and 
talk. I do like to hear your voice; it reminds me so of old days!” 

Philip seated himself as she requested. “You must have a good 
deal to tell me. Celeste.” 

“ Yes, but your story first. All that has happened to you irom 
the very last day I saw" you.” 

Omitting all mention of Kersaint, Philip gave her a resume of his 
wanderings, describing just the scenes and people she was likely to 
care about; and Celeste listened w"ith great interest, and her plump 
hands clasped in a charming attitude of attention. 

“ Voild tout!'' she cried, as she finished. “Ah, and you have 
become quite a philosopher among these dreadful deserts without 
doubt. Mon pauvre ami, how sentimental you used to be!” 


PHILIP EAENSCLIPPE. 


299 


“ Very long ago; I do not look sentimental now; do I?” 

“ Oh, no; you have quite lost that indescribable expression; that 
softness — not of voice, that is the same as ever — but of face. All 
your youth is gone.” 

“ if should be, I am getting old.” 

“ Do not speak of it, what must I be?’* 

“ For some people time remains stationary.” 

” Ah! you never used to make pretty speeches; poor little Frido- 
line often said that was your great charm.” 

” Fridoline!” echoed Philip. “I had almost forgotten her. 
Where is Fridoline? a great actress she must be by this time.” 

” She is gone,” said Celeste, gravely. ” No, not .dead; but re- 
turned — vanished as she came. Some news respecting the death of 
a relation reached her, and she never could be induced to go on the 
stage again. Imagine the rage of the manager! She had to pay an 
immense sum to get off her engagement so suddenly.” 

” But when did all this happen? Is she really gone — forever?” 

” Oh! it happened two or three years ago. One night, just as she 
was going to the theater, she got the letter;, and a week afterward 
had quitted England, accompanied by an old servant, whom you 
may remember. She came to see me in Paris — it was just after my 
marriage — looking years older, and in deep mourning. I was sur- 
prised at her coming here; for, of course, it took her out of her way 
in returning to Norway; but she said she had a visit to pay near 
Paris, before leaving France forever. That visit was to Pere la 
Chaise — and I accompanied her.” 

Then you know more about her now than you used to do?” 

“ I know all; and should like you to do so too. Tenez! I had 
entirely forgotten it; but I have a letter for you from Fidoline her- 
self. She gave it me, and blushing and confused, the day she left; 
and made me promise to keep it for you, saying, ‘ You will see him 
again, or hear of him, at least — I never shall. ’ Do you know, Mon- 
sieur Earnscliffe, I believe poor Fridoline loved you?” 

“ Me, Celeste? Never. We were friends, as two young men of 
the same age might be — nothing more.” 

Celeste shook her head. “I don’t believe in these kind of 
friendships; if on the one side the feeling lasts as it began, it is sure 
to become warmer on the other. However, you shall have the ]et- 
ter to take home with you; when you have read it, you can judge 
for yourself. It is close at hand among my old letters. Here 
it is.” 

” I will read it to-morrow; let us speak of nothing but old times 


300 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFFE. 


now.” And they spoke until the time-piece just beside them 
chimed two; and Madame Deschamps started at its sound, and ap- 
peared suddenly to recollect that she was no longer Celeste. 

” I hope you are not leaving Paris yet?” 

“ A polite way of bidding me good-night, madame! Y6u have 
not told me of all our mutual friends yet, or, more interesting still, 
half enough about yourself. ’ ’ 

” Mais voila Anatole qui rentre!” exclaimed Celeste, as a man’s 
step was heard on the staircase; “ and two hours in the morning!” 
speaking English — ” It is frightful, these Paris husbands.” 

Monsieur Anatole entered, and smiled affably to Philip. “ Ah, 
Monsieur Earnscliffe! I am charmed that you have honored us. She 
is looking w*ell, is she not?” taking his wife’s hand affectionately. 

” Hemarkably well!” answered Philip. “ I was just telling her 
so, ’ ’ he thought, ‘ ‘ when you interrupted me. ’ ’ However, he was 
silent. There seemed such perfect harmony and good understand- 
ing in the menage, he could not for worlds have disturbed it. 

” I have already trespassed too much on jowx kindness, madame. 
In talking over so many old friends and scenes, I have forgotten 
time,” he said bowing to Celeste: “ and now I must have the pain 
of again wishing you good-bye; only this time I trust it will be for 
months, not years. ’ ’ 

” Ah, you are hastening back to London so soon!” 

“Yes; I am obliged to leave to-morrow morning; but next winter 
I hope to return to Paris for some months, and — ” 

“ You will come to see us— you will count us of your friends?” 
said Celeste’s husband, warmly seizing both his hands, and with 
actual tears in his eyes. 

“ The French are a singular people!” thought Philip, as he 
walked home in the moonlight to his hotel. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

When he was half-way between Paris and Boulogne, the follow- 
ing morning, Philip took Fridoline’s letter from his pocket and 
broke the seal. The contents were as follows: 

“ I shall never see you more. Monsieur Earnscliffe. When you 
receive this letter, my name will come back to you like a dream 
long forgotten. You will say, ‘ Ah, poor little Fridoline! I re- 
member, now, there was something about her I never understood. ’ 
And just for this reason I write you. In the eyes of the world I 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIPPE. 


301 


care nothing how I am remembered. I may be merely called ec- 
centric, or classed with all other actresses; but to you— I know not 
why — I would appear as I really am. The time is past when it 
could injure any one to disclose the secret of my life — the reason for 
secrecy, alas! exists no longer. Philip, let me tell you briefly why 
I left my own country — why I followed a profession; and associated 
with a class that was abhorrent to me! 

‘ ‘ My earliest recollections are of a Norwegian village, buried in 
the depths of pine forests and wild mountains — where, for more 
than half the year, the snow never melted; and of a large, old farm- 
house, of which only a few rooms on the first floor were furnished, 
and where I lived with my aunt Christina, and one servant — Hulda, 
who has never left me. 

“ My aunt was tall, and thin, and severe, and appeared to be of 
immense age — although I suppose, in my childhood, she could not 
have more than reached middle life. She loved me; but with an 
austere kind of love that chilled me instinctively. If I danced and 
sung, she shook her head, and looked away from me — when I 
played childish tricks upon Hulda or the cat, she told me the devil 
was in my heart. Once, when I was about six years old, I collected 
a quantity of spring flowers in the forest, and made them into a 
wreath for my own hair, then climbing up to the glass in her bed- 
room, I was surveying myself with great satisfaction, when my 
aunt suddenly entered. ‘ Yain already, child,’ she cried passion- 
ately. ‘ You shall be dressed in your old winter things all the sum- 
mer.’ And she flung my flowers far away through the window. 
Afterward, when she joined us by the kitchen stove in the evening 
— for I had taken refuge, as usual, with Hulda in my disgrace — I 
saw that Aunt Christina’s eyes were red with weeping, and I won- 
dered where was the sin of making flower wreaths! But Hulda told 
me I was too young to understand such things. 

“ As I grew older, I was never allowed to associate with any of 
the other girls in the village. People seemed to look upon us as 
something doubtful — my aunt held aloof from everybody: so we 
had no visitors. I think she only received about two letters a year, 
on each of which occasions her eyes always grew red, and her man- 
ner to me redoubled in severity. If I asked why I had no f^her or 
mother or sisters, my questions were checked so sternly, that I felt 
it was very wrong for me to wish to be related to any one. Still, I 
was not unhappy. It takes more than loneliness or occasional pun- 
ishment to subdue the natural spirits and loving heart of a child. 

“ So the time went b}" till I was fifteen. On that day I fancied 


302 


PHILIP EARIs^SCLIFPE. 


myself a woman, and I told my aunt so. ‘ Do you, Fridoline?’ she 
answered. ‘ Then as you have decided it yourself, so it shall he. 
To-day ybur childhood ends. ’ She was right. From that day I 
never felt young again. 

“ I remember well with what interest 1 seated myself by the open 
window on that bright June morning — eager to devour every word 
as it^fell from the lips of Aunt Christina, as she sat opposite me in 
her favorite stiff horse-hair chair. She told me who I was — what 
was my mother. Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe! I shrink from repeating it 
to you even now — nothing could make me do so but the feeling that 
my own character must always remain misunderstood unless you 
hear my history. Knowing also that you will not be harsh in your 
judgment upon her who is gone, and that, when you have read, you 
will burn this letter, and never allow its contents to be known to 
any but yourself. 

“ They were early left orphans — these two sisters: — but my mother 
was years the younger, and gifted with extraordinary beauty and 
talent. From the difference in age, Christina loved her almost with 
the love of a mother; and when, at sixteen, in spite of their religious 
education— in spite of all she could say against it — her young sister 
embraced the life of an actress — it almost broke her heart. 

“The success of the lovely Pauline was instant, and in a few 
weeks all the young nobles of Christiania were at her feet. Chris- 
tina continued — great as was her repugnance to theaters and actors 
— to watch over her, even when she had to bear with harsh words 
for her untiring surveillance. But it was all in vain. Natural 
vanity — levity — I must call it by no harsher name — was too strong 
in the heart of the young actress. She became the mistress of 

Count Z f, one of the richest nobles in Norway — and, by the 

time she was seventeen, was my mother. 

“ Christina had not seen her for months; but a fortnight after my 

birth she called at the costly house which Count Z f had fitted 

up for Pauline, and had a long interview, in which she made use of 
every appeal, both to affection and religion, in her endeavors to win 
her back. But to no avail. In the height of her youth and 
beauty, the voice of poor Christina had little charm to lure her 
from her guilty splendor and the apparent devotion of a man like 

Count Z f ; and she declined every proposal to leave him, and 

return with her sister to the country. ' Then give me the child, 
at least!’ said Christina. ' Let me save her innocent life from con- 
tamination, and bring her up with a horror of all that has lost you! — 
far away from the world and its temptations. ’ It was some time 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


303 


before my mother would consent. The strongest love of humanity 
was not so dead within her that she could give up her helpless in- 
fant without a pang! At length, however, she yielded; Christina 
receiving me on the sole conditions that I shoulil be as entirely hers 
as though my parents were actually dead, and that she never should 
be asked to receive any presents or money from my mother on my 
behalf. ‘ From that time,’ my aunt concluded, ‘ I have never seen 
her. She left soon after for Paris, and I believe acted there for some 

time. Count Z f deserted her at the end of six months. And 

then — but I wish to enter into no more details to you, child — enough 
that your mother still lives — is still guilty. You will not blame 
me now that I have been severe with you, and have checked all ap- 
proach to that levity which was her ruin, although in any other 
child it might have been innocent. ’ 

“ I shrunk away from her — I hid myself in my room — I prayed 
to God that I might die. The whole earth seemed suddenly dark 
and hideous to me; and for many weeks afterward I was danger- 
ously ill with brain fever. 

“ Just as I was slowly recovering my strength, my aunt Christina 
died suddenly, leaving me all the small property, she possessed, and 
perfect mistress of my own actions. I do not think I felt her death 
much at the time — indeed, I was glad of my newly acquired free 
dom, for I thought it would enable me to carry out a scheme, first 
framed in the delirium of fever, but which I had pondered over 
calmly and ripened since; to go to Paris, find out my mother, and 
endeavor to win her from her present life. 

“ It was a wild idea, but yet we carried it out— I and Hulda. 
We traveled, and in winter, the long, long journey to Paris; and 
then, child as I was, I had to search for my mother, with no other 
clew than the address of the hotel where she had lived some years 
before. I can not enter into the hateful details of that search — you 
may imagine them: but, strictly as I had been reared in a simple 
cottage, ignorant of all vice, save in name, nothing daunted me, 
and I found her. 

“ She was living in splendor at the hotel of some great Russian 
prince, and it was with difficulty I could gain admittance to her 
presence. ‘ Madame was out ’ — ‘ Madame was ill ‘ I was not 
commanded I was an impostor,’ and so on. However, I was 
not to be deterred; and,. after waiting about for more than two 
hours, I contrived to steal up the back staircase among some of the 
women servants, and then asked one of them to show me to ma- 
dame’s room, offering her five francs fqr her trouble. She led me, 


30 i 


PHILIP EARKSOLIFFE. 


along one or two passages, and then pointed to a door, saying that 
was the bedroom of madame, and I must knock for myself — she 
would incur no further responsibility. In my eagerness, however, 
I forgot to knock; and, entering the room, I saw a lady, richly 
dressed, sitting in an immense fur-covered fauteuil by the fire em- 
broidering. She turned with surirrise at being interrupted; but, 
on seeing my pale face and worn black dress, doubtless thought I 
was one of her work- women come to solicit charity. 

“ ‘ Sit down,' she said kindly to me, ' poor girl, and tell me what 
I can do for you. ' 

“ The sound of her voice made me turn quite sick with emotion. 

‘ Madame,’ I faltered out, ‘ I am Fridoline! — I am your child!’ 

“ She turned deadly pale, and, for a moment, I thought that she' 
had fainted; then she started up and came to me, caught me in her 
arms and kissed me wildly, passionately. ‘ Fridoline, my own — 
my very own. Child, how have I yearned to see your face! my 
child — my own!’ She clasped me to her breast; and, with no more 
words than such as 1 have just written, we passed two hours. 

Ah, Philip! I knew that she was a lost, stained creature, but 
yet the deepest joy I have ever known was in those moments when 
I rested for the first time upon my mother’s bosom, and felt her 
kisses upon my face. 

‘ ‘ I thought from her intense delight at seeing me, that she would 
at once leave Paris, and return to our quiet home with me; but, 
with each secret visit that I paid her, this hope died away. AVhen 
at length I had courage to approach the subject, and, as delicately 
as a child could do, besought her to turn her thoughts to another 
world than this, and let me devote all my future life to hers, she 
evaded the question; and at length I saw— not that she was entirely 
without remorse or any better aspiration — but that wealth and 
luxury had become part of her very existence, and were ties too 
strong for her to give up; and that it was these that bound her to 
life. 

‘ ‘ Then, for the first time in my life I wished for money, and for 
her sake; and an inward conviction told me that, if I chose, I could 
win it by becoming an actress. As a child, I had alwaj^s possessed 
great powers of mimicry^ — although my aunt punished me severely 
in her hope of checking it. And often in the long winter evenings, 
when I was not more than six years old, I used to convulse poor 
Hulda with laughter at my representations of everybody in the vil- 
lage, including the pastor and Aunt Christina herself. But I turned 
with loathing, at first, from the idea of following the same calling 


PHILIP EAKXSCLIFPE. 


305 


that had been my mother’s, and only stifled my prejudice against it 
as the conviction gradually strengthened upon my mind, that it 
was the sole thing open to me in which my abilities could be 
brought to bear. Finally, I resolved upon making the attempt; 
crossed over to England — where I heard I had a better chance than 
in Paris— and accepted a small engagement at the French Plays; 
you are aware with what success. 

“I begin now to think that my scheme was a false one; that 
even money could not have effected what maternal love had failed 
in. But for years no doubt ever crossed me; and this one object 
kept me ever on, untiring in my profession, undismayed by diffi- 
culty, or, worse still, by all the horrors of vice that beset me. I 
corresponded at intervals, and by stealth, with my mother. She 
always wrote with the most touching affection; said how she gloried 
in my success, in the name I was creating; but, above all, by my 
fair, unspotted fame; and then there would be regrets and faint 
resolves of her own, soon to leave Paris for my sake. Very faint 
they were, but still enough to keep me on unwearied at my work. 

“ I was beginning to think that I should soon have amassed suffi- 
cient money to enable us both to live well upon in Norway, when 
news arrived that rendered my efforts objectless forever more: my 
mother had died suddenly one night on her return from the theater. 
The letter w^as from her own waiting-w^oman, the sole person wffio 
had been admitted to the secret of our relationship, and she added 
that my name was the last sound upon my mother’s lips before she 
died. 

' ‘ I never acted again. My life has lost its aim now, and I shall 
return to my own country, unknown, unnoticed — as I left it. 

“ Philip, do not quite forget me. 

“ Fhidoline.’' 


CHAPTER XLIV, 

A VERY grand ball was to take place at the French Embassador’s, 
to which Marguerite was invited. Without knowing why, she was 
much more anxious than usual about her dress for this occasion. 
Her dress-maker was astonished at the number of times she changed 
her mind, and the numerous visits she paid her before the day came 
— Mrs. Mortimer, who generally decided upon a toilet at once, and 
never looked at it again until she wore it! 

Can you tell me the time, Mr. Mortimer? I am sure all the 
clocks must be slow?” 


306 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


Mortimer was dozing in liis arm-chair by the fire, and Marguerite, 
seated at one of the drawing-room windows, was watching the last 
fading hues of the April twilight, and the cold-looking moon that 
rose among the leafless elms in the distance. They were now liv- 
ing in Mortimer’s house at Wimbledon, where he fancied the air 
agreed with him better than in London, and which Marguerite also 
preferred for its gardens and conservatories. 

“ Time, child — how you startled me! Is not the time-piece strik- 
ing something?” 

” It must be slow; surely it is long past eight!” 

“ How anxious you are to put on your finery, Maggy. Well, I 
will ring for lights and coffee at once, and you can go.” 

” You shall not have j^our coffee earlier on my account, sir; there 
is plenty of time,” replied Marguerite, a little ashamed of her own 
anxiety on the subject; and she came and seated herself by Morti- 
mer’s side. Her face was very flushed, and she gazed long and 
steadily in the fire. 

‘‘I feel to-night,” she went on, “some unaccountable weight 
upon me: something almost warning me not to go to this party — 
much as I wish it. Shall I go, Mr. Mortimer?” 

“ Silly child! of course you will go. What can happen to you? 
— the horses are as quiet as any in England. You are getting 
fanciful, Maggy; you do not take exercise enough.” 

But Marguerite could not shake off her fancy, not even when she 
was dressed and far on her way to town. It was, as she had said, 
a vague presentiment — not precisely amounting to a foreboding of 
evil, but a feeling that something was to occur that evening of no 

common importance. As she approached A House, however, 

the crush of carriages, the noise and excitement, took her thoughts 
from herself; and when she entered the brilliantly decorated rooms, 
amidst the blaze of countless lights and the open admiration of every 
eye she met, no wonder that all gloomy thoughts vanished! 

^ ‘ La belle Mortimer never looked so lovely, ’ ’ said one knot of 
young men, who were watching her entrance. 

“ I thought you were acquainted with her,” remarked a friend. 

“ Of course I am.” 

“Oh! she never bowed to you in passing, that was all.” 

‘ ‘ She is as capricious as other beauties, ’ ’ said the first speaker — a 
silly looking youth : one of the crowds whose attempts at idle com- 
pliments Marguerite’s quiet dignity had set down. “Even the 
marquis is thrown over sometimes. At Lady Dacre’s party, her 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


307 


fancy was to talk to some hideous little author the whole evening. 
However, he was beneath St. Leon’s jealousy, I suppose.” 

“St. Leon is Mrs. Mortimer’s cousin,” said a young man who 
had not yet spoken, gravely. ” Of course they are intimate! But 
little Grot ” — turning toward the youth — is always so sharp- 
sighted when there is nothing to see.” 

A tall figure was standing close beside the group, his face turned 
away, but intently listening to all they said. When the last speaker 
finished, they changed their position slightly, so as to be out of 
hearing; and the stranger— for something about his appearance and 
bearing made him look unlike the London habitues of the room — 
moved on also, his eyes still following Marguerite as she advanced 
to the graceful hostess. 

Are you engaged for the first contre-danse, madame?” 

Gaston, you quite startle me, speaking in such a solemn tone! 
Monsieur, I am engaged for the first, but not for the second.” 

“You will promise it me, then?” 

“ Certainly; but, cousin, on our usual terms — not to dance it! 
Even if one cared for dancing, which I do not, who would 
struggle and faint through such a crowd as this, for a mortal qua- 
drille, when they might pass it coolly in some dim-lit conservatory? 
Look out for one, dear Gaston — you know what we both like; and, 
above all, one with few intruders.” 

“ She is too open,” thought St. Leon, as he watched Marguerite 
led away by the partner who came to claim her; “ no woman on 
earth ever made such a remark as that to a man she loved! And it 
is better so — far better!” he added, with a half -sigh. “ She is 
happy as she is; and yet, sometimes, her blushes, her faltering an- 
swers — Would it were decided: 1 can not pass my life in these 
doubts and hopes forever.” 

Like most Frenchmen, Gaston had small religious beliefs. No 
compunction as to morality, or even the ruined happiness of an- 
other, ever crossed his mind when his wishes were concerned — his 
own passions to be gratified. Sensitively alive to honor (on all 
points which men of the world have decided to constitute it), he 
could visit daily at Mortimer’s house, and receive his hospitality, 
with the systematic intention of one day winning Marguerite’s 
love, and feel none of the confiicting irresolution- -the agony of re- 
morse — which a man like Earnscliffe would have done, even 
although he had not sufiBcient strength to fly from temptation. 

“ Viol§, notre contre-danse, mon cousin!” He started as Mar- 
guerite’s gay voice aroused him from a long reverie into which he 


808 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


had fallen — a reverie in which his secretlf cherished hopes of com- 
ing into power under the new imperial regime of France, and his 
hopes with regard to her were strangely blended. “Have you 
forgotten all about my request? You look extremely absent.” 

Gaston offered her his arm without reply; but when they had left 
the ball-room, and were passing through the crowded vestibule, he 
whispered, “I am absent, madame — distrait — miserable; but of all 
others, you must pardon me. ’ ’ 

” Gaston, do not be sentimental!” she answered, with a laugh. 
“ I always tell you that your greatest charm is in being unaffected. 
It would not suit you to be poetic and wretched.” 

St. Leon led her on, through one after another of the magnificent 
suite of rooms that were thrown open. “Will this crowd never 
lessen?” he exclaimed. “ I am sick of so many human faces.” 

“ You should have employed your time then, while I was danc- 
ing, in finding out some cool, undisturbed spot, Gaston, instead of 
indulging your poetic fancies.” 

“ I was thinking of you, madame; do not blame me.” 

The abrupt manner, the subdued tone, if it was acting, was ex- 
cellent, and would have told with the majority of listeners. But 
Marguerite drew away. 

“ We have gone far enough, cousin. It is not too warm here, let 
us rest and admire these lovely statues.” 

“ You wished to be among flowers and moonlight just now! You 
are changeable to-night, madame.” 

“ Let us go on, then!” she returned, gently, guessing from his 
face that he was offended, and too yielding ever to contest a point; 
“ if you really wish to be away from the crowd. No one seems to 
be entering that door on the left— shall we try it?” 

The door was closed; but yielded to Gaston’s hand, and they went 
in. It was a small morning- room or boudoir, that, although not 
formally closed, had not been included among those rooms which 
were to be thrown open; and an alabaster hand-lamp, left, proba- 
bly, by accident on a center- table, was the only light. Gaston 
quickly closed the door before any other wanderers in search of 
quiet and cool air had discovered their retreat or attempted to follow 
them; and Marguerite, who otherwise would have hesitated at en- 
tering a room not intended for guests, found herself thus obliged to 
remain, or show too plainly her unwillingness at being alone with 
St. Leon. 

“ Gaston, this quiet and repose seem almost fairy-like, after tlu' 


PHILIP EARis'SCLIFPE. 


309 


lights and murmur of voices we have left. Had we better remain 
here? the room looks scarcely intended for strangers.^’ 

'‘You told me, madame, in the ball-room, to select a spot free 
from intruders— surely this must answer the description?” 

“ What a bright moon!” remarked Marguerite, turning toward 
the window, which opened upon a balcony leading to the trellised 
roofs of some conservatories. “ And the air does not feel cold, 
although it is long past midnight.” 

She stepped out; but hastily retreated. 

” Gaston, some one is here before us. I am sure I saw a figure at 
the further end of the balcony — a tall, slight figure. Cousin — let 
us retire, we may be intruders. ’ ’ 

“ Let me see!” St. Leon answered, springing down the steps 
which led from the window, and taking a hasty survey around, 
then quickly returning to her side. “ You were deceived, Mar- 
guerite,” he said. “I have looked around, and no one is to be 
seen.” 

“ But I am positive I sawlhe figure of a man.” 

“It may have been a servant, then,” he replied, carelessly. 
“ But, whoever it was, is gone now. Come in. Marguerite! the 
air is too cold for you to remain without. ’ ’ 

” The calm night is so refreshing!” she answered, lingering — her 
eyes fixed dreamily upon the dark gardens beneath, as though she 
longed to pierce their shadows. 

St. Leon wheeled a chair close to the window. “ Sit here, then,” 
he said, ” where you can feel the air without being exposed to it.” 

” Thank you; that is delightful. And you, cousin?” 

He seated himself on alow ottoman, almost at her feet, and looked 
up in her face. 

” Here is my place, Marguerite!” 

” Nonsense, Gaston! Only imagine any one entering and seeing 
you! Although we are cousins, people w^ould think I was a 
coquette— a character that I am not anxious to acquire.” 

St. Leon rose in a minute. ” I wish I could believe you no 
coquette. Marguerite.” 

” Gaston!” 

“I repeat it — I should indeed be happy — wildly — tumultuously 
happy, if I believed you were not a coquette.” 

” Cousin Gaston! do you know what you are talking about?” 

‘ ‘ I know too well, madame — and it is impossible that you do 
not understand it also. No — you shall hear me!” He caught her 
hand as she half rose. ” I have been silent too long, and I can con- 


310 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


ceal the truth no more. That truth which you must have guessed a 
thousand times, Marguerite — I love you!” 

“Love me!” she stammered, turning very pale. ‘‘Yes, dear 
Gaston — cousinly love— as a brother — ” 

“ No, madame, not as a brother. Je vous aime ” (the conversa- 
tion was in French, of course) — “ je vous aime d’amour.” 

The hand which he held turned quite cold, and he felt her trem- 
ble. “ Gaston,” she said, quickly, “ I can not remain here, now — 
let me go.” 

“Not until you answer me, Marguerite, ma cousine.” Very 
gentle was his voice; he misunderstood her reply, and drew her nearer 
to him, but she shrunk away. 

‘ ‘ Cousin, you must not speak to me thus, never recur to it again 
— let us be friends, as we have been. I — I — ’ ’ 

“Marguerite,” he interrupted, “tell me honestly and plainly, 
with all the truth of your nature, do you love me?” 

“As a friend?” 

“ No, madame; as a lover?” 

“ No— a thousand times no.” She took her hand away, and 
looked him very full in the face. 

“ Then you have trifled with me cruelly — trifled with me as I 
could not have believed you capable of doing, with your youth, 
and your seeming innocence.” 

“ I do not understand you, monsieur!” Even her soft temper 
was aroused by his bitter manner, and the sneer which accom- 
panied his last word. “ How have I trifled with you?” 

‘ ‘ Marguerite, can you recall no time when your voice has sud- 
denly lowered as you spoke to me — when your cheek has flushed, 
your eyes have sunk beneath mine? Have you never started at my 
voice? Oh, Marguerite!” he went on, his tones growing low and 
agitated with these recollections, “ it could not all be acting. Speak; 
tell me that although 1 may hope for nothing more, there lime at least 
been moments when you loved me. Tell me only this one word. 
Even now you are pale, you tremble.” 

Marguerite’s head had sunk, as she listened to him, until he could 
only see the averted line of her profile, and her hands were clasped 
together nervously. A sudden self-reproach shot through her at 
Gaston’s words: and, in her lowliness of self-estimation, she at once 
transferred the guilt of his love to herself. 

“ I have deceived him,” she thought. “When the likeness to 
Philip has made me blush and tremble against my own conviction, 
he has thought it love for him! Yet, how can X undeceive him?” 


PHILIP EAKHSGLIFFE. 


311 


With cheeks now burning with shame, she looked up timidly in 
her cousin’s face. “ Gaston, I Tiam unconsciously deceived you,” 
she whispered. ‘ ‘ Nay, do not misunderstand me — not as you think 
I have — Cousin, there is some one without, I know I heard a 
step—” 

‘ ‘ No — no, it is nothing. Go on. Marguerite, all my hopes in life 
hang upon your next words!” 

“I have, Gaston, never loved you; but, early in life,” she 
lowered her voice, and glanced hurriedly toward the open window, 
” long before I was married, I parted with one dear to me; one 
whom I have never met since, shall never see again; and, oh, Gas- 
ton! how must I tell you? there is a likeness in your features. At 
times you have so reminded me — and — ” 

” Madame!” interrupted the marquis, with the most frigid polite- 
ness, ‘ ‘ I beg of you not to be so discountenanced. It is no unusual 
occurrence. Most English young ladies have loved before they 
marry; and with me your secret — such as it is — is perfectly safe. 
Only, another time, when you may trace any fancied resemblance 
in one of your friends to this — early lover, it might be well to ex- 
plain the circumstance at once; before so many blushes, and starts, 
and tremors have led him into being the fool that I am. You have 
honored me with your regard from my likeness to another! I 
thank you, madame!” 

“ Gaston — ^you are unjust!” 

“ I have been deceived. You can not enter into my feelings.” 

“ And I have been wrong — so wrong,” her voice faltering, “ but 
let my ignorance of the world be my excuse. If I could have 
guessed in the slightest degree your feelings toward me, cousin, I 
would have died sooner than mislead you on such a subject. I have 
few real friends— no relation but you, and now I have offended you 
forever. Oh, be generous enough to forgive me!’' 

He turned away with an assumption of indifference that ill 
accorded with his agitated face, for he was touched by her artless, 
pleading manner. “ I can never think of you. Marguerite, but as 
an image of everything most sweet and lovely; but we can not con- 
tinue friends; 1 have hopes and ambitions in France, in which I 
shall, doubtless, be able to forget the dream of the past year. After 
to-night, we shall meet no more.” 

The tears rose in her eyes; but she was silent. She could not 
mw ask him to be her friend still, or oppose his intention of leaving 
England. 

“ Shall I conduct you to the ball-room, madame?” offering her 


312 


PHILIP EABKSCLIFFE. 


his arm with just his usual manner, and seeking to banish from his 
voice all traces of recent emotion. “ Your absence may be noticed; 
and, I believe, I am engaged for the next dance.” 

‘ ‘ Then go — pray go — and leave me here until it is all over. I am 
so flushed — so agitated yet — it will be well for me to remain quite 
alone for half an hour.” 

He left her, without another word; and Marguerite remained 
alone — alone in her beauty, her youth, and brilliancy, but with 
tearful eyes, and a feverish weight about her heart, more even than 
her rejection of Gaston was sufficient to occasion. In hearing words 
of love once more — although her heart no longer beat to them — the 
past seemed to have arisen again. These long, cold years of separa- 
tion rolled away: her youthful passion, her glowing Kersaint life 
returned. She thought of the first hour when her heart acknowl- 
edged its love for Earnscliffe; of the day when they had parted — the 
promises she gave him then — 

“ Philip,” she murmured, half aloud, “ I lime been true to you 
— I have loved no other.” 

“ Marguerite,” answered a low voice, very softly, -but whose tone 
made her whole blood rush wildly to her heart. She looked up, 
and close before her stood Earnscliffe. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

On his arrival in London, Philip met with a much warmer re- 
ception amc»ng his old friends than he had anticipated. Small jeal- 
ousies, petty rivalries, are forgotten in five years; and, with our 
natural proneness toward the past, men remember only the brighter 
side of youthful friendships, and imagine they were infinitely 
warmer than was in reality the case. 

He went straight to his uncle’s house when he arrived; and the 
intense delight of the old man in once more seeing his bo}^ re- 
warded Philip sufficiently for his intention of making England 
henceforth his home. He was soon overwhelmed with invitations, 
and the soft eyes of many a young debutante looked kindly at him 
wherever he appeared. For he was now again eligible — the heir to 
Miles’s not inconsiderable property (which the old man’s good man- 
agement and economical habits had greatly incrbased since the time 
of his failure); and, last of all, handsomer than ever, and with just 
such an amount of scandal connected with his name as serves to 
give additional interest to a man in the eyes of young ladies. 


PHILIP EAENSCLIFFE. 


313 


He never thought of meeting Marguerite. The name of her 
husband had escaped from his memory, or whether they ever lived 
in London; and when he heard the perfections of the lovely Mrs. 
Mortimer described, he little knew they spoke of Marguerite. 

“ She is as lovely as an angel, and as faultless,” said one of his 
friends; “far too excellent for my taste! However, you will see 

her at A House this evening, and you can judge for yourself; 

perhaps she may be in your style.” 

“As I do not know what that is, I can not answer. I generally 
look devoutly at eveiy fair face I meet, and forget it in five min- 
utes. At my age men are past enthusiasm about beauty.” 

When Marguerite entered the salons of the Comtesse de P 

that evening, amidst the murmurs that her appearance always ex- 
cited, Earnscliffe saw and recognized her in a moment. His aston- 
ishment may be conceived on meeting Marguerite St. John in the 
celebrated Mrs. Mortimer, and beholding into what glorious beauty 
her girlish promise had ripened; and an emotion, of which an hour 
before he would not have believed himself capable, smote his heart 
as he thought of all he had once been to her; and how completely 
the world and her success must now have effaced him from her 
memory. He observed her meeting with St. Leon; and, in her 
free, unconstrained manner, saw that there, at least, he had no rival, 
although, with the jealous quickness of a lover, he read at once, on 
the face of the marquis, that his were more than ordinary attentions 
which every one pays to a lovely woman. 

“ She may not care for him'' thought Philip; “ but to how much 
devotion like his must she have been exposed! Fair though her , 
fame is, among all the men in London who are at her feet, is it 
possible that no new fancy may have sullied the old love?” 

He had next to watch Marguerite as she danced with some young 
Austrian officer, to whom she had just been introduced, and to 
mark her smiling, animated manner during the whole quadrille. 
Then to see St. Leon approach her again, and Marguerite take his 
arm, with an air of the most complete intimacy, laughing merrily 
as she told him of his solemn manner. 

“ She has become a coquette— she is like all other women, now!” 
thought Earnscliffe fiercely. “ How I detest this hot throng of peo- 
ple;” and he walked away from the ball-room, and from Marguerite. 
Chance led him to the boudoir already mentioned : and the fresh, 
bright night tempted him into the garden without, where he paced 
hurriedly up and down, thinking over this sudden meeting with his 
old love, and the emotions that the sight of her awakened. ‘ ‘ I 


314 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


laughed at it all tliis morning,” he thought, “ and said that men of 
my age could not feel the passion of boys; yet my heart has beat 
more wildly at meeting Marguerite than it did years ago when she 
first said she loved me: more than hers would now, I imagine, on 
seeing me. Our characters are changed from what they were in the 
Kersaint days! Marguerite is a woman of the world; and I shrink 
and tremble — but this is folly.” He stopped short in his walk, 
and turned again toward the house. “ I will return and ask to be 
introduced to Mrs. Mortimer. If she treats me as an ordinary ac- 
quaintance, or feigns altogether to forget old times — let it be so! 
I will not wound her pride or disturb her composure by recalling 
them.” 

So he retraced his steps and was about to enter the window, when 
he heard the sound of voices, in low, eager conversation; and 
paused as one instinctively does on interrupting an interview of this 
nature. His first thought was to withdraw as he came, and find 
another entrance to the house; but as he noiselessly turned with this 
intention, he caught the agitated words of Marguerite — “ Gaston, I 
have unwillingly deceived you;” and he knew in a second that it 
was her voice. 

Fastidious almost to a fault, on smaller points of honor, Earns- 
cliffe would not have stopped to listen even had his own dearest in- 
terest been concerned; but he was literally so spell- bound by Mar- 
guerite’s voice, that it was some minutes before lie could reflect 
upon his position, and that he was overhearing a conversation not 
intended for other ears. And in that time he had learned all — her 
rejection of Gaston — the meek acknowledgment of her old girlish 
love — the half confession that that love still lingered. 

“Unchanged!” he thought. “And still so gently — so utterly 
distrustful of herself. Oh, Marguerite, that I could claim you for 
my own at last!” 

He waited until St. Leon had gone, then silently advanced and 
gazed on her subdued mournful attitude — her drooping head; 
scarcely breathing, lest the sound should disturb her. But when 
he heard his name on her lips, he could remain silent no longer. 

“ Marguerite!” 

She looked up — she knew him. To his last hour that expression 
of her face will never fade from Earnscliffe’s memory. Delight — 
pure, passionate delight — like that of a mother’s welcoming back the 
child she had believed dead to her, shone in every feature. She 
clasped his hands — looked up into his face with the eager gaze of 


PHILIP EAENSCLIFFE. 


315 


one recalling every line of the well-known features. Philip! 
Philip!” 

He was the first to recall anything of the present to her mind; and 
Marguerite unclasped his hands and drew slightly back. 

‘‘It is so sudden,” she said, faintly. “Forgive me. I forgot 
everything — but seeing you again — imagine my surprise — ” 

“ Imagine mine— on discovering that the celebrated beauty of all 
London was Marguerite St. John.” 

Both spoke somewhat abruptly; and with the hurried intonation 
of deep excitement; then, after a few seconds, they began to speak 
on indifferent subjects— as those always speak who meet like this, 
yet dare not give expression to their real thoughts. Marguerite 
asked how long he had been in England? — Earnscliffe inquired 
politely after her husband. But, even as they spoke, the eyes of 
each sought the other; each felt that, under that assumed calm, lay 
words of passionate joy at meeting — thoughts of that tender past 
which every look and word recalled. 

“ You are so changed, Phil — Mr. Earnscliffe.” 

“Yet you knew me instantly.” 

“ I knew your voice; but, of course, I should have recognized 
you anywhere — at any time. You look older, Philip” (his name 
would come); “ scarcely so grave, though, as you used to be. Ah! 
you were so pale when— when I last parted from you.” 

“ I am only outwardly changed, Mrs. Mortimer.” 

“ Only outwardly changed!” She looked up into his face as he 
bent toward her, and thought till this moment she had never seen 
the perfection of human expression before. How could she ever 
have called Gaston like him? — Gaston — Mr. Mortimer. With a 
sudden flash of thought, Marguerite remembered her husband, her 
home, and her gloomy forebodings of that evening before she start- 
ed, and all the brightness of her dream faded. 

‘‘ It is getting late,” she hesitated. “ I think 1 shall soon leave.” 

‘ So soon? After five years of separation, can you not spare me 
one half hour? Mrs. Mortimer, 1 have much to hear.” 

‘ Perhaps, ’ ’ hesitating still more, ‘ ‘ you would call upon us. 
am sure Mr. Mortimer would be glad to see you, and—” 

‘ And you? Do you really wish me to come?” 

” Oh, Philip! can j^ou ask?” 

The caressing tone and quick, upward look were so exactly Mar- 
guerite in her old girlish days, that Earnscliffe almost started. Her 
manner had, of course, acquired something of the conventional tone 


316 


PHILIP EAKKSCLIFFE. 


of the world; but at this moment she looked as child-like as on the 
first morning when she ran beside him on the sea-shore. 

“ How shall I ever remember to call you by your new name?” he 
whispered, as they returned toward the ball-room; and Marguerite’s 
cheeks were yet glowing with the blush this remark called forth 
when they entered. 

St. Leon saw them instantly. He was not dancing — indeed his 
engagement had been only a pretext for leaving her — but was stand- 
ing alone, moodily thinking over the blow his vanity, and such love 
as he was capable of, had received. A fierce pang of jealousy shot 
through him when he saw Philip. 

“Who is that stranger with Mrs. Mortimer?” he asked of an 
acquaintance near him. 

“ The little man with red hair, that she is speaking to?” 

“ Bah! the man on whose arm she leans.” 

“ That? eh, mon cher ! is it possible you do not recognize Earns* 
cliff e, the writer — just returned from the East? Mrs. Mortimer 
looks more animated than usual. It is not often celebrities take to 
each other so well?” 

Gaston moved impatiently away; he guessed, by one of those in- 
tuitions peculiar to persons of his subtle nature, that he was look- 
ing at Marguerite’s old lover; guessed it by Philip’s quiet manner — 
by her face; and he saw,'wdth fresh bitterness, the error into which 
he had fallen in believing that Marguerite loved him. 

“ She loves him still,” he thought. “ Poor -little fool! and will 
call it friendship. Celui la me venger de son indifference!” 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

It was very late when Marguerite reached home, and the few 
hours intervening between her arrival and Mortimer’s early break- 
fast were spent, not in sleep, but in agitated reveries over meeting 
with Philip, and anxious endeavors to form some right plan for the 
future. She would tell her husband, at all events; her truthful nat- 
ure forbade concealment for a second. “ Mr. Mortimer understands 
the world better than I do,” she thought. “ He will decide upon 
what terms I ought to meet Philip now — how great should be our 
intimacy. ’ ’ Marguerite knew not that, after all that was past, she 
had but one safeguard — to see him no more. 

“Did you enjoy your ball as you expected. Marguerite?” said 
Mortimer at the breakfast-table, glancing up from the newspaper. 


PHILIP EARIS'SCLIFPE. 


317 


“ Lord, child, how pale you look! I shall he glad when all these 
dissipations are over, and I can take you off quietly to the sea- 
side.” 

“lam more tired than usual to-day; there was so much excite- 
ment last night, I mean.” She grew nervous, and began to stir her 
untasted coffee. “ I met— ” 

Mortimer, however, was not listening. He was particularly en- 
gaged in reading the city article, and, much as he loved Marguerite’s 
voice, would just as soon it had been silent at that moment. 

“ I have something to tell you, sir,” with sudden energy. 

“ Indeed, my dear!” very unwillingly looking up from his paper, 
and keeping his forefinger on the spot where he left off . “What 
do you want now, little wife? wasn’t your dress fine enough?” 

Something in his manner so utterly forbade the delicate confidence 
she was about to make, that all Marguerite’s courage forsook her, 
and scarcely knowing what she said, she turned abruptly to another 
subject. 

“ Cousin Gaston is going to France, Mr. Mortimer.” 

“ The best place for him, too. l}e has been discontented and out 
of humor for months past. He will get into place under the em- 
peror, no doubt, stanch loyalist though he used to be; a French- 
man’s politics can always turn round at a day’s notice. When is 
he coming to say good-bye?” 

“ I don’t know, sir— perhaps not at all; I said something to him 
last night which he did not like, I am afraid.” Marguerite quite 
regained her composure in speaking of Gaston. 

“ Um! I can imagine what it was. He was seen hovering about 
you too long, even for a cousin. These young Frenchmen have not 
our feelings upon honor and good faith. Is this the news, then? 
Cousin Gaston's departure?” 

With a burning blush. Marguerite forced herself at length to 
bring out Philip’s name. “ She had met an old friend — a friend of 
her father’s — Mr. Earnscliffe, the author.” 

“ Indeed, child! I never knew your father had any English 
friends since you were born. However, I am glad you have met 
some one to talk over old times with. Just let me finish my city 
news, and you shall tell me all about him. ’ ’ 

The entire unsuspicion of her husband made Marguerite’s task 
more difficult to perform. She sat watching his face as he read, and 
wondering how, with his strict, almost stern ideas upon such points, 
he would receive the intelligence that, years ago, as a mere child. 


318 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


This wife had had a lover — a married man, too, even then — and that 
she had now met him again in the world! 

“ Shadhrook Brothers, by Jove!” exclaimed Mortimer, with a 
vigorous descent of his large hand upon the table, which made the 
Sevres breakfast-service start from its aristocratic composure. “ I 
said it— I knew it— for days past, and no one believed me! Gone — 
ay! to everlasting smash! They will not pay a shilling in the 
pound, and I was foolish enough to keep one of their bills, against 
my own conviction. I beg your pardon. Marguerite, but I must 
start for town at once. Thank God! it’s only for a thousand 

pounds; but poor M s will be let in for half he is worth. Ring 

the bell, my dear; don’t you see I am in a hurry?” 

Marguerite shrunk aside as Mortimer, his red face all flurried 
with the news of Messrs. Shadbrook Brothers’ failure, bustled from 
the room. He forgot to say good-bye to her even, in his excitement; 
and five minutes afterward she heard the carriage roll off that took 
him to the city. 

And so ended her attempted confidence respecting her old lover. 
She had not the courage to attempt the subject again. And Morti- 
mer never knew how far more important to him were the trembling 
words that hung impendng on Marguerite’s lips that morning than 
any city failure could have been, even though it involved the loss of 
a thousand-pound bill! 

Earnsclifie’s last words, the night before, were, Then, to-morrow 
I may call, if you will allow it;” and Marguerite passed all the fore- 
noon in a feverish, unsettled state of excitement, expecting him; 
half regretting, at one moment, that she had not spoken to Morti- 
mer; then glad, poor child! that she had been silent — that once, at 
least, she was to have the exquisite happiness of being again with 
Philip. 

Philip was shown into Marguerite’s morning- room, where she 
usually received visitors, and, after a few minutes’ pause, to recover 
her composure, she joined him. 

She shook hands with him in silence; then seated herself at some 
distance, her face turned aside, her hands clasped together in just 
her old timid gesture. Once more with him she felt that all her 
acquired manner of society vanished; she was exactly as she had 
been at sixteen. ‘‘ I have watched for you all the morning — 1 mean 
— I — ” stopping suddenly short as she recollected how she was be- 
traying herself. 

“ This room looks so like you!” said Earnsclifie, pitying her evi- 
dent embarrassment: “the books, the flowers, the absence of all 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


319 


those artificial nothings with which most women think it necessary 
to be surrounded. I could fancy myself at Kersaint.” 

“ Ah! but this is not my room. There I have indeed all the dear 
old books from home; this is called my morning- room, but I receive 
visitors here. I could see no stranger in my xoom.” 

“ Then I shall not be admitted?” 

” Yes, I should like you to see my father’s books. You are not a 
stranger, Mr. Earnscliffe.” 

” Nearly so; after five years, old recollections are as nothing with 
most people. Those only who possess a peculiarly happy organiza- 
tion can forget. ” 

“Happy!” she turned her full gaze on his face. “Happy! my 
life would be utterly barren if there were no past.” 

“ In the world — in society — who thinks of it?” 

“ In the world — in society? But out of one’s existence? In 
the early morniug, of a summer’s evening, of a winter’s night, oh! 
Philip! in all the times that make up our real life, the past is every- 
thing. It is the poetry of the present.” 

“To old people it may be so; but with the young, all golden 
dreams lie in the future. ’ ’ 

“ Ah! I spoke only for myself,” returned Marguerite, sadly. “ I 
never look onward.” 

There was a moment’s silence; then Marguerite resumed: “ Will 
you let me show you my garden? There is one part of it I should 
like you to see, although it is too early in the season for it to look 
perfection.” 

She rose, and opened the door of a glass alcove, leading into an 
immense conservatory, where tier rose above tier of the rarest hot- 
house plants — all grouped and arranged by one of the first gar- 
deners in England. She then led him through a winding path for 
some yards; and, turning round, said — “ This is my miniature of 
the forest lake at home, where the water-lilies grew. Do you re- 
member it, or see any resemblance?” 

It was a clear pool of water, artificial, of course, but natural 
enough in appearance — ferns and water-plants were planted round 
it, all of the same kinds as really grew in Brittany; and a profusion 
of water-lilies, not yet in flower, floated on the surface. 

‘ ‘ I remember well, ’ ’ said Philip; ‘ ‘ it was our first walk together. ’ ’ 

Oh! dangerous conversations, when every sentence commences 
with “ I remember!” They stayed long by the little lake, talking 
of old days, old scenes — but both tacitly avoiding all allusions to 
their last parting, or anything that had happened since then. 


320 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


“ Poor Bello was with us that day by the lake!” said Marguerite. 

I fancy now that I can see him darting off into the forest for 
game. Do you recollect him?” 

“ Perfectly well; is he still living?” 

“ jS'o: he died about a year ago. I grieved for his deatli more 
than I should have thought it possible to grieve for an animal. But 
then he was all that remained to me of my home; and he was so 
faithfully attached to me, up to the very last.” 

“ And your home — Kersaint— who has it now?” 

Mr. Mortimer would not let it be sold when he saw how much 
I cared for it. Manon lives there with poor, half-witted Bruno. 
She writes me a strange letter twice a year, quite her own style and 
orthography, but full of affection and all the simple news that she 
knows I care for — about the peasants and the garden. Yes; Ker- 
saint is still mine. We have often talked of making an excursion 
there; and I do think this summer Mr. Mortimer will take me. 
Poor Manon! can you not imagine her wild delight? but you look 
so very thoughtful, Mr. Earnscliffe, what are you dreaming about?” 

” I was thinking whaT; a happy man your husband must be; able 
to forestall every wish of yours, and read the pleasure in your face 
for his reward!” 

“ I believe Mr. Mortimer is happy,” she answered; “ most kind 
and generous I know that he is. But tell me ” — seeing the clouded 
expression still upon his face — “ does this mimic lake really remind 
you of our forests — of Brittany?” 

“ Yes; I am only too much reminded,” said Philip, “of things 
it would be far better to forget. ’ ’ 

“ Yet you have seen so much since, I wonder that you can have 
such a good recollection of poor Kersaint. You have been every- 
where— Vienna, Borne, Jerusalem, Thebes — while I have seen noth- 
ing but London, and a few watering-places all these years. Which 
place — I mean which city— that you have visited would you like to 
live in best?” 

“ Borne. At least it suited mj^ mood best at that time; and 
friend Neville was with me there. But,” added Philip, looking 
steadily at her, “ my recollections of Borne are bitter ones; for it 
was at Borne I first heard of your marriage!” 

Marguerite turned away and plucked tiny pieces from the grass 
beside her very quickly. “You must have been surprised,” she 
said, in a low voice. 

“ It was very soon, that was all. I expected it would be so, after 
a lapse of time; but it teas soon, Marguerite.” 


PHILIP EARHSGLIPFE. 


321 


“ I — I — should have written; but I did not know where to send 
my letter. I did not want you to hear of it first through the papers, 
without any explanation. I should have liked you to know all the 
circumstances, and how very unhappy the life was that I left, when 
I married!” 

“You acted perfectly wise, of course! My feelings, I confess, 
were intensely selfish ones. I ought to have been glad to hear that 
you had again a home and a protector, but 1 could not feel so. As 
I said, my recollections of Kome are bitter ones! In ten days after 
hearing of your marriage, I left it forever. ’ ’ 

” Forever! shall you not at some future time return to Italy? I 
can not imagine your living long in England.” 

” Well, I can not imagine myself living long anywhere. I am so 
accustomed to change and unquiet that — However, I shall now 
have diflferent objects in England to those that I have had before. 
Perhaps they may fill the void of life better than any of the former 
ones!” 

“ Do you care much for going to the opera now? Oh! how you 
used to tell me about it, and how vainly I tried to picture it all. It 
is my greatest amusement, my real pleasure.” 

“ Then I am sure I shall care for it,” answered Philip. “ But I 
have forgotten all about operas, of late years. Do you remember 
how I told you once that your voice only wanted cultivation, to be 
the first in England? I was right, you see; I have heard of your 
renown.” 

‘‘Yes— I sing well, I know; but my singing does not give me 
greater pleasure than when I could not tell a note, and sung only 
wild ballads to my father — ” 

‘‘ And to me. I remember well the first evening I ever heard 
you sing to the guitar — with the sunset falling on your face through 
the open window, and I thought it was the face of the Madonna, 
out of some old painting. Have you quite forgotten?” 

•‘ ‘ And how you stole away afterward, and I watched you pacing 
up and down the terrace, in the twilight. Generally, I ran after 
you myself, I remember, in those long summer evenings. Oh! Mi*} 
Earnscliffe, what must you have thought? I was so very free in 
manner; so very different to what I now know is correct for 3 ^oung 
ladies to be.” 

“ Shall I tell you what I thought?” 

” ^N'o, no; it would only be a compliment.” 

” Of which you hear so many, that you are tired?” 

” Of them, and the people that pay them too. It is so delightful 


322 


PHILIP EAEKSCLIPPE. 


to speak again to some one who is a real friend, and with whom 
one can talk of subjects of greater interest than people and parties, 
and all the repeated nothings which form common conversation.” 

“ But, surely, you have some friends who do not come under 
such general denunciation?” 

None; with perhaps one exception, that 1 can call a friend.” 

“ And that exception?” 

“ Well, I think Lady Millicent Gore cares for me more than any 
one else.” 

And the Marquis de St. Leon?” 

“ Cousin Gaston? Oh, yes; he and I were great friends. But he 
is not like you: he is conventional, and never can see things quite 
as I do. Still, I have liked Gaston; the tie of relationship is some- 
thing in itself, and it was so unexpected to meet with a relation of 
my mother’s, that my heart warmed toward him from the first. 
But he is leaving England for good, now; and — ” 

“You will miss him extremely, I suppose, Mrs. Mortimer?” 

“ No— I mean it is better Gaston should go — that is — Mr. Earns- 
cliffe! an idea is flashing upon me.” Marguerite’s cheek became , 
crimson, and a whole forest of tiny leaves were soon lying upon her 
white dress. ‘ ‘ Last night, when you found me alone — had yoa 
heard?— did you hear Gaston’s voice?” 

Most unwillingly,” replied Philip, “ I confess that I heard some 
of a conversation not intended for other ears. Something I heard 
before I had time to withdraw; then, I caught the tone of your 
voice, and forgot everything else in listening to that again!” 

- “ And you heard — tell me! I would rather know!” cried Mar- 
guerite, in her generosity only thinking of Gaston’s secret; tell me 
what you heard him say.” 

“ I scarcely heard the voice of your companion, and have not the 
faintest recollection of his words. I thought but of your voice.” 

‘ ‘ That is right. Gaston would not have liked a stranger to hear 
what he was saying. His political career in France is just opening, 
and we were talking of things important to him, and — ” 

'‘Not to you?” 

She looked up quickly, and saw from the expression of his face 
that he had heard enough to guess the nature of their interview; 
and her eyes sunk with shame as she recollected her own last words 
contained the confession of her former love. 

“ I have forgotten all about it,” she stammered. ” Let us speak 
of something else.” 

How lovely she looked at this moment; resting in an attitude of 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


823 


the most excessive grace upon the turf-bank where they were sitting, 
together— her face turned half aside, her eyes downcast, uncon- 
sciously pulling to pieces the petals of some daisies that she had 
plucked. 

“ Your own flower, wild-Marguerite. Will you not give me one 
now, as you used to do in by-gone times?” 

“ 1 ^ 0 , 1 was a child then. Children may give or say anything. I 
will give you this piece of jasmine,” taking it from her waist-belt; 
” and it is a very early and rare kind, and much better worth hav- 
ing than my poor namesa^zC But I must confess I prefer all wild 
flowers, however common.” 

Do you remember our lesson in bouquet-making?” said Philip, 
approaching nearer to receive the flower, “that bright May morn- 
ing? and how you told me — ” 

And so on, with those endless recollections and replies — so tiring 
for other people — so interesting to those concerned — until the sun 
warned Marguerite that the afternoon was quickly passing. 

“ I must show you the library and the old books,” she cried, gs 
«he rose; “ I had no idea the time had passed so quickly.” 

‘ ‘ And I have kept you out in this cold east wind, ’ ’ replied Philip, 
as they walked slowly toward the house. “ You are much too 
thinly clad for our wretched English spring.” 

“ I never wear a bonnet. It was part of my education, you must 
remember, to brave all weathers; and England has a better climate 
than Brittany — ” 

“By comparison, perhaps. I hate all these northern climates, 
after the warm South, where every breath one draws is an actual 
onjoyment, and life flows on so sweetly one does not know that it is 
indeed passing.” 

“ Yet you have left this delicious climate?” observed Marguerite, 
smiling. 

“ I was alone in Italy, Mrs. Mortimer: I rather spoke of what life 
might be there, than of what mine actually was. Alone, existence 
is much the same everywhere.” 

Marguerite did not answer; and entering the house together she 
led Earnscliffe upstairs into her little library. The oak paneling — 
the plain book-shelves— all were in exact imitation of her father’s 
library at Kersaint; and his own books, with a few of Marguerite’s 
favorites, were on the shelves. 

“ In this room my in-door life is passed,” she said. “ I read here 
for hours every day. Take this seat — no — not where you can look 
out and see the difference between Wimbledon Common and the 


324 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 


green sea at home — but here turned toward the fire-place— and now, 
fancy y 001*8011 at Kersaint!” 

“ May I, indeed, do so?’’ was Philip’s reply, and the blood rose 
crimson in Marguerite’s cheek at the tone. It was in the library she 
had told him that, whatever happened, she would never love any 
other but him; and she felt that the whole scene must return upon 
his recollection. 

“ I did not mean — Oh, Philip! I can keep up this appearance 
no longer,” she exclaimed, passionately. “Let us speak once of 
old days, and then, be silent forever! iiemember how young 1 was 
— how ignorant of the world — ” 

“ Marguerite,” interrupted Philip, rising and taking her hand, his 
own trembling as it met hers, “ do not speak as though the past 
contained anything jou could wish forgotten. If there was wrong, 
it was my own : if there should be a remorse, it is for me. You 
have always been as you are now — most blameless.” 

“ But, Philip, hear me; for this once I must speak. You know 
how — then— I loved you,” the words came reluctantly from her 
lips, “ and when we talk so much of old times, it recalls old feelings 
to my heart, that should have died long ago; and it is wrong, ior I 
am married now— married to one whom I respect more than all on 
earth, and I must not have a thought apart from him. Will you 
help me in not recurring to the past? I am weak still, you see, and 
I look to you for assistance.” 

She spoke quickly, nervously, and changed color eveiy moment. 
Ignorant that she was betraying to Earnscliffe that which a woman 
of the world would have hid from her own heart, namely, that bis 
infiuence over her was as powerful as ever, she said simply what she 
believed it was her duty to say; hoping that, having done so in this 
first interview, their futuie intercourse would be placed upon a 
right footing. 

“ Help me, Philip, in not recurring vainly to the past, or wishing^ 
any part of life undone. We have both so much to make us happy 
still — you in your genius and ambition, and I — ’ ’ 

“You hesitate. Marguerite.” 

“I, in the kindness and affection of Mr. Mortimer,” she added, 
but with an effort. “ In the home he has given me — in striving to 
make him happy in his old age. Tell me that you think it right that 
we should agree to forget the past?” 

“ Agree not to speak of it rather! it can never be forgotten. The 
one bright spot out of my whole existence — those few short months, 
when, however guilty, I loved — was near you; no. Marguerite! it is 


PHILIP EAKlSrSCLIFFE. 


325 


impossible for me to say, ‘ I can forget it.’ If any recollection of 
that time makes it bitter for you to see me now, I will never intrude 
upon you again. Tell me to leave you, Marguerite — tell me that as 
a married woman there is wrong in your being with me again; but 
do not ask me to forget the past, or to feign an indifference that I 
can never feel!” 

She looked up in his face; her heart thrilled at his words (cold 
and dull when written, but oh, how eloquent spoken by Earnscliffe!) 
and, wrong or right, let those judge who have been likewise tempted 
— Marguerite could not bid him see her no more. What weight had 
thoughts of duty or prudence as she listened? The five lethargic 
years she had passed without Philip were gone; and they were again 
together as in the earliest, fondest days of their love. She fancied 
the beatings of the waves came in through the open windows — her 
father smiling at her from his old place by the fire! 

‘ ‘ Philip, I can never ask you to leave me again — never believe 
that there is wrong in seeing you.” 

” Oh, Marguerite! you do not know the happiness those words 
hold oijjt to me. After the loneliness of years, to be once more near 
you — occasionally to be allowed to visit you, hear your voice, gaze 
silently upon your face, will be delight I can scarcely realize. But 
you look fiushed and tired, my — Mrs. Mortimer, I mean. Tell me 
that you are not wearied with my long visit?” 

“ How could I be wearied with you? I am flushed — but not 
with fatigue. Are you really going so soon?” as Earnscliffe rose 
with signs of departure. “You have not looked at the books yet, 
or at my drawings — I haye learned to draw since I saw you last — or 
at a portrait of my mother that I wished you to see. Do stay a little 
while longer!” 

And Earnscliffe stayed until the golden sunset flooded the room, 
and the time-piece struck seven, and the hour of his dinner-party 
in town was over’ And all this time every word of Marguerite’s, 
every gesture, every wave of her dress, as she flitted lightly before 
him with her books and drawings, was recalling his old passion, and 
making his pulse once more tremble like a boy’s — he — who yester- 
day declared he had outlived love! And poor Marguerite! safe as 
she believed them both, after their candid avowal and her own 
resolutions, looked up with her frank, confiding gaze, and spoke 
unreservedly as ever, and once even touched his hand with her old 
familiar gesture, and believed that it was all friendship. 


326 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

“ How pale you look, Marguerite! and so dreadfully nervous! 
You scarcely hear a word 1 am saying. All your gayeties are not 
improving your beauty!” 

It was Miss Georgy who spoke. After remaining for some months 
indignant with Marguerite, she at last bethought herself that Mrs. 
Mortimer’s own parties, and an occasional place in her opera-box, 
were infinitely better than nothing. So (about a month later 
than Philip’s first visit to Wimbledon), Miss Georgy came down 
unexpectedly one fine day, to see “ dear Marguerite;” prepared, as 
she said, to forgive everything, and have a long, friendly morning 
together. 

The standing commencement of these “ mornings ” of female 
affection being for one friend to say something mortifying to the 
other. Miss de Burgh had opened proceedings by commenting very 
plainly upon her young relative’s ill looks. But Margueri^, fitful 
in spirits, after the now daily excitement of meeting Philip, and 
weary from the effects of a feverish, sleepless night, cared nothing 
for any comments on her beauty. 

” I must be pale, I know,” was the reply, “ for I feel far from 
well, and so weary ” — leaning her head down on the silken pillows 
of the sofa. “ I believe I go out too much.” 

“Ah, yes!” returned Georgy, with one or two nods; “but I 
always foresaw it all, as you know. I ammot surprised. I always 
told you,” she added, “ what it would be, if you and Earnscliffe 
ever met again. ” 

“Georgy” — her pale cheek coloring up in a second— “ I don’t 
understand you. I—’ ’ 

“ My dear Marguerite, the time is past for any excessive inno- 
cence now. After a flirtation with your cousin, and now with all 
London talking of you and Earnscliffe, simplicity is almost out of 
character.” 

“ All London talking of me! Georgy, you must jest.” 

“ Not in the least, dear; I hear your name a great deal oftener 
than is creditable for a married woman, especially when in connec- 
tion with a man of the notoriety of Earnscliffe.” 

“ What can they say of me? Who can be sufficiently interested 
to mark my actions?” 

“About that I do not know; what they say, however, is very 


PHILIP EAPNSCLIFFE. 


327 


soon told — that you are carrying on a most desperate flirtation! 
However, it does not signify much, as long as your husband hears 
nothing of it,” she added, with a laugh. 

“ As long as your husband hears nothing!” These careless words 
awakened a vague chill of terror in Marguerite’s heart. Could the 
world be really speaking evil of her? Could there be a chance of 
Mortimer’s hearing it? She felt that any anger her own explana- 
tion might have awakened would be nothing compared with that, 

Georgy read her face directly; and, for reasons of her own, re- 
pented she had said so much. She did not wish Marguerite and her 
husband to have scenes and explanations, or leave London just 
then. 

“ Oh, I was only half in earnest,” she cried quickly; but you 
take everything so extremely an serieux. English people always 
invent scandal about each other, you know; it’s one of our national 
peculiarities. But Mr. Mortimer is not likely to hear the on dits of 
your world. He never goes out with you, does he?” 

“Never!” repeated Marguerite, sadly. “I go out entirely 
alone. ’’’^ 

“ Well, it’s trying for you; but then, from the way j^ou used to 
talk, we all thought you were quite removed from the temptation 
of ordinary mortals. ‘ Gayeties had no charm for you.’ ‘You 
liked to look old for Mortimer’s sake,’ and so on. I always knew, 
though, that it could not last. Are you going to Mrs. Lorrimer’s 
fete?- 

“ I don’t believe I shall go. I dislike those long, daylight enter- 
tainments, especially now that I am not well.” 

“ Bui you can go late,” said Georgy. “ There is to be a ball, 
al fresco, and the grounds illuminated, and I know not what be- 
sides.” 

“ I wish you were going in my place, Georgy.” 

“ Dear Marguerite, how kind of you! But that is impossible, 
you know; one person can not accept the invitation of another. If 
you were going, it would be different.” 

“ Oh, if I were going, I could take you easily. I know Mrs. 
Lorrimer so well that I should not scruple to bring you with me. ’ ’ 

“ Ahl dear Marguerite, do go, for my sake,” pleaded Georgy, in 
her softest manner. ‘ ‘ I have had such a dull season, and mamma 
cares less for anything but her own fancied complaints every day. ’ ’ 

Marguerite would inflnitely have preferred remaining away; but 
Georgy looked so eager, she did not like to refuse, especially after 
the cold feeling that had lately existed between them. 


328 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFFE. 


“Well, as you like,” she answered. “ AVliat day is it for? I 
have* forgotten all about it.” 

“June the first, dear; that will be next Friday — in three days. 
Marguerite, how good-natured of you to take me! What must I 
wear?” Georgy’s manner was so child-like, it was difficult to be- 
lieve that she was ten years older than her intended chaperon. 

“ Wear? Oh, Georgy, 1 have so many dresses that I have never 
worn. I wish you would take one of them. It would be really a 
kindness; for this will probably be my last gayety this season, and 
by next year they will be old-fashioned. Eulalie could make any 
alteration you like.” 

Miss de Burgh was not too proud to accept the offer, and ac- 
companied her to her dressing-room, where, after a long inspection 
of numbers of costly toilets, she chose the most expensive she could 
see, and Marguerite’s last bonnet from Paris, with the small ad- 
dition of French gloves and sleeves. 

“ Are you quite sure you can spare them?” said Georgy, after 
Mademoiselle Eulalie had carefully packed up her spoil. 

“ Oh, yes. Indeed, I care nothing for gay dresses myself. It is 
Mr. Mortimer who insists upon my having all these rich things.” 

“ And yet, with all your extravagances, you seem to have plenty 
left for charity. I see your name at the head of every list and 
subscription.” 

“Yes, out of our superfluity. We feel nothing that we give. I 
have never spoken to a poor person since I married.” 

“ Of course not. In your position, and living in London, or near 
it, you can’t do those things as though you were a curate’s vife, 
on a hundred a year, in the country.” 

“ So Mr. Mortimer says; and of course he is right — ” 

“Talking of country curates. Marguerite,” interrupted Georgy, 
“ do you remember your admirer — Mr. Ignatius Shirley?” 

“ Who said I was an Anglican? Yes, I remember him.” 

“ Will you believe that, after all his profession, and shaving his 
hair close to his head, and intoning the service, and saying (when 
mamma demanded an explanation of his intentions to me) that the 
Catholic priesthood should not marry, he has gone completely round. 
His new rector was Low Church, and very rich, with one daughter; 
and the mean little wretch was Broad Church in a week, then as 
Low as possible, in the hopes of getting lier. However, I am happy 
to say, the girl married some one else; and Shirley has just been 
well pulled up by his new bishop — who is an Anglican again — for 
saying in one of his sermons that ‘ baptism was a pleasing form. ' ' ’ 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFPE. 


329 


“ And what has become of your own opinions, Gebrgy? You 
went even further than Mr. Shirley, I remember. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am developing, ’ ’ said Miss de Burgh, solemnly, 

“ Into what?” asked Marguerite, to whom the phrase was new. 

“Is it possible that you are ignorant of the beautiful theory of 
development? Oh, Marguerite! my future life will show it you.” 

“ And who is your preceptor in this new — system?” Marguerite 
inquired, aware that without a priest no faith would do for Georgy, 

“ My present counselor is the Comte de Montravers — a man to 
whom England will yet owe her regeneration. We shall meet him, 
I trust, on Friday.” 

“ I am surprised that those to whom such serious questions are 
all-important can care for the frivolities of society,” Marguerite 
remarked. 

“Yes,” returned Georgy, with a pitying shake of the head, “ that 
is how the Tvorld speaks, knowing nothing of the beautiful 
elasticity which is our chief characteristic. We go into society for 
society’s sake — not our own,” 

Marguerite wondered, as this was the case, that Georgy should 
care for Brussels lace, and Paris bonnets; but concluded it was part 
of the elasticity she spoke of. 

“ But I never dance now,” said Miss de Burgh. “ What I can, 
without singularity, renounce of these follies, I do. Is that your 
lunch bell. Marguerite? I must make an early dinner with you. 
To-day is a fast, and I attend compline.” 

They went down to the dining-room; and, from Miss de Burgh’s 
vigorous onslaught upon chicken pie and jelly. Marguerite concluded 
that fasting was an exercise to which she had not yet “ developed.” 

“ What time shall you call for me?” she inquired, when her little 
meal was finished. “ Let us go late; the effect is much better on 
entering fresh, and when other people are beginning to be tired.’’ 

‘ ‘ Certainly — we shall have fewer hours of it — five, do you 
think?” 

“Oh! at the latest. Marguerite. Remember it is an al-fresco 
affair, and the dancing will commence early. Suppose you say that 
you leave your house at four; by the time you have picked me up, 
and we drive to Richmond, it will be late enough, in all conscience. 
Good-bye.” 

“ But you do not walk, surely?” 

“ No. I came — I was obliged to come — in the omnibus.” 

“ Then wait, at least, till I order the carriage round for you. 1 
am going to ride on horseback this afternoon.” 


330 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


“ Oh, you dear, kind creature!’' 

And after more kisses, and much amiability, Georgy tc ok her 
leave, to be in time for compline; but not forgetting to have Mar- 
guerite’s presents carefully stowed away in the carriage. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Marguerite said rightly that Earnscliffe had much to make life 
desirable in his genius and ambition. He had returned, no longer 
a dreaming boy, with morbid feelings toward one class because they 
had slighted him, toward another because they had misappreciated 
his books. Great and settled principles had dawned upon him in 
this interval; and, as at thirty every man must strengthen his on- 
ward or retrograde path, the turning point had arrived from whence 
Philip’s was to be recognized as one of the leading intellects of the 
day. 

The downfall of a ministry— only held together because any 
change at that crisis was dangerous — was imminent; and, under a 
new administration, Earnscliffe’s intention was to enter Parliament, 
and take an active part in the social reform of which he was now a 
supporter. 

Meantime he went as much as ever into society, and soon had an 
only too engrossing object there — an object before which, for the 
time, even his own political advancement was secondary. In three 
weeks from the day of their first meeting,'Philip knew that he loved 
Marguerite with a passion compared to which even his former love 
for her seemed tame and poor. He strove with it— he felt that it 
was madness — putting aside any higher consideration of religion — 
that, even if Marguerite were to become his, the misery of both 
would be sealed; yet he could not resist temptation by leaving Lon- 
don, or seeing her no more. He loved her beyond the bounds of 
prudence and reason. He had not learned in his youth that where 
reason stops, paralyzed and forceless, a higher principle can con- 
quer; and that only religion — warm, heartfelt religion— can combat 
the frailty of our erring nature, and still the wild dictates of earthly 
desire. He had to learn it by a bitterer lesson than any which his 
life had yet taught him. 

Earnscliffe went rarely to Wimbledon, and when he did so his 
visits were short. Unlike St. Leon, he shrunk from receiving the 
hearty grasp of Mortimer’s hand, his ever ready hospitality, his 
cordial and frequent invitations. The absence of all distrust or 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


331 


suspicion in the old man, his utter confidence in Marguerite, were 
irresistible appeals to one of Philip’s generous nature. Although 
he had not the courage to withdraw from the wrong itself, he 
shunned communication with the man whom his conscience told 
him he was injuring, and at last only met Marguerite in the parks, 
or at parties and the opera, but then these meetings occurred, at the 
least, every five days out of the seven! 

“ I hear grave things of you,” said his friend Neville, one morn 
ing when Philip was alone with him in his studio. Neville lived in 
a good house now; and was, according to his own ideas, a very 
rich man. “Everyone is coupling your name with that of Mrs. 
Mortimer. Surely you would not let the fair fame of the woman 
you were once ready to die for, be sacrificed to gratify your vanity? 
Whatever are your faults, Phil, that is unlike you.” 

“ Who mentioned my name with hers?” exclaimed Philjp, angrily. 

“ Who dared to breathe one word in detraction of Mrs. Mortimer? 
Neville, you are bound to tell me. ’ ’ 

“ My good friend, be cool! When you are devoted to Mrs. Mor- 
timer at every party where you meet her, are always seen in her 
box at the opera, or riding beside her in the park, I suppose — igno- 
rant as I am of such things— that it is just to call you her very warm 
admirer, and not unmerited to speak lightly of herself. Married 
English women don’t encourage these innocent friendships, you 
know, as they do in France or Italy.” 

Philip made no reply. Something in Neville’s plain way of 
speaking brought the real truth before him; and he shuddered to 
think that Marguerite’s name was being sullied by all the idle men 
and loungers in clubs, and that he should be the cause. 

“These things are incomprehensible to me,” pursued Neville, 
throwing himself back in his chair, and sending forth a perfect 
volcano of smoke from his short meerschaum. “ The kind of en- 
tanglement into which you are now entering is a madness I can 
neither understand nor pity. Yours, mind — I pity her, by Jove! 
The world is wide, there are hundreds of women of all ages and 
conditions whom you might easily win, yet you still pursue and 
hunt down this poor little creature, who very nearly lost herself for 
you before, when she was a child. Leave her, Phil! How is it » 
all to end? that is what I ask. By her deserting her home and hus- 
band for you? Oh, you turn away! but such is the conclusion of 
this kind of attachment. Then — what is the result? At thirty — 
just when your life is really beginning — you are saddled with a 
woman forever, whom it would be infamy to desert, yet whose 


332 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


presence, after six months, will be a literal burden to you. A wom- 
an, uncorrupt in heart, yet classed by the world with the vilest of 
her sex — always in tears, always devoured by self-reproach that she 
would vainly seek to hide — such would be your household com- 
panion, Suppose a step further — there is a divorce, or the husband 
dies, and you marry her — as a man of honor must do so — worse and 
worse still! You are now married to a woman society will never 
receive; you can never forget what she was (what you made her — 
mind) before she was your wife; you can never feel respect for her, 
or she for you. If she is still young and beautiful you will be jeal- 
ous of your most intimate friend; remember the fair face with 
whicli she deceived her first husband, when she was encouraging 
you; and never be alone with her writing-desk without the secret 
wish to break it open, and discover if the same sort of notes are 
lying there which you remember to have existed in the time of Mr. 
Mortimer, defunct.*’ 

“ Good heavens, Neville! have you done?” interrupted Philip, 
impatiently. I never heard any human being talk so fast or so 
incessantly as yourself. You go on with your imaginings until you 
make me out a thorough villain, betrayer, seducer — almost mur- 
derer. I wish you would refiect upon what you are saying.” 

It would be well for you to do so, my friend!” replied Neville. 

However, some day you will remember my counsels, and wish 
you had attended to them.” 

Neville!” exclaimed Philip, springing up, and speaking very 
earnestly, “you misunderstand me altogether. I would give my 
right hand sooner than Marguerite should be ill thought of. But 
you know not all the history of her past life and mine; you can, 
however, guess my feelings, for you have seen her. Tell me what 
I ought to do — how act as a man of honor. ’ ’ 

” How act with honor, Earnscliffe? Leave her at once — how can 
there be a question? Break it off directly.” 

” And her feelings?” 

'‘Oh! her feelings are already engaged then, too? It is even 
worse than I thought. I will tell you what, Phil, no half-meas- 
ures will avail now. Leave town immediately— go abroad again — 
to Scotland — anywhere you will, and stay there till the whole affair 
is past. When you return, it will be comparatively easy to avoid 
the snare once escaped^feign another love, for example. Are you 
listening to a single word I am saying, mon clier, or only meditat- 
ing, after the common manner of human nature, how you will not 
act upon the advice you asked for?” 


PHILIP EAR]S'SCLIFFE. 


333 


“I have heard you,V replied Philip, sloMy, “and know that 
you are thus far right. It must be broken off at once, or never. ’ ’ 

“ And between these two you hesitate? Between common sense 
and common honor, and eternal — ” 

“Neville!” he interrupted, abruptly, “there are some points 
upon which no third person can give an opinion. Thank you for 
your good intentions, and — good- morning;” and before his friend 
could speak again he had quitted the room. 

“ And I have lost half my morning, ” soliloquized the artist when 
he was gone. “Oh! the folly of arguing with a man in love.” 

****«*# 

That evening Marguerite was at the opera, more fresh and youth- 
ful-looking than ever, in a white dress and natural flowers (Earns- 
clilfe had said how much he preferred seeing her without her rubies 
and diamonds, and of late she had never worn them when Mortimer 
would allow her to appear in public dressed according to her own 
simple taste). During the second act, she saw Philip enter a box on 
the other side of the house, and seat himself beside one of the 
youngest beauties of the season, to whom he began paying— or ap- 
pearing to pay — the most marked attention. Perhaps he was 
already trying to follow Neville’s advice— perhaps he wished to test 
how Marguerite would brook divided homage. She was, however, 
•devoid of all small jealousy; a-fid thinking it quite natural Philip 
should sometimes like to talk to others beside herself, she smiled 
and chatted with just her usual manner to the bevy of box-loungers, 
wdio approached her between the acts. 

“ That Eastern man,” lisped Mr. Grottiesley, or “ little Grot,” as 
Ins friends called him— a young Guardsman, wdth straw-colored 
mustache and moon- like face, who had long wished to be one of Mar- 
guerite’s admirers. “ What is his name? Earnton, Earnley — ” 

‘ ‘ Mr. Earnscliffe, perhaps. ’ ’ 

“ Oh! — ah! — he really has something to say, I suppose; Miss Carl- 
ton Yere appears actually listening as he talks to her.” 

“Yes,” replied Marguerite, smiling, “one always remembers, at 
least, what Mr. Earnscliffe is talking about, which is not the case 
with every one, I must confess.” 

“Oh! — ah! — yes! — tombs, I suppose, and all that— ah! — dreadful 
bore, men who have been to Thebes and Petraea, and such places, 
and talk about what they have seen. Now I have been all over the 
world — Egypt — Jerusalem— Crimea — St. Petersburg — but you 
wwld not guess it, would you?” 


334 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIFPE. 


“ Oh, no!” Marguerite answered, in her most simple manner. ” I 
should have thought you had only just left school. Is it possible 
that you have really traveled?” 

” Miss Carleton Yere is not half as pretty as she is usually called, ’ 
remarked a friend, who was listening with pleasure to little Grot’s 
failure, ” Do you think anything of her, Mrs. Mortimer?” 

” Indeed I do!” replied Marguerite; ” hers is just the style I ad- 
mire — finely chiseled features, and pale, alabaster complexion.” 

” A poet’s beauty, in short. Earnscliffe seems to consider it so.” 

But Marguerite’s calm expression did not vary for a second; and 
the young Guardsman who disliked tombs remarked to his friend, 
wdien they had left her box : 

” That woman is the deepest hand I ever knew; she never even 
changed color at my sarcasm about that puppy, Earnscliff e. ’ ’ 

Philip, meanwhile, was absent and distrait. He was inteutly 
watching Marguerite all the time that he seemed to be so attentive 
to the lady at his side, and wondering how she could be so happy 
and smiling without him — nay, more, while he was apparently de- 
voted -to a fresh object. Had he, after all, given her credit for 
deeper feeling than she possessed? — would the idea of parting from 
him again affect her as deeply as he had told Neville? His im- 
patience soon overcame all previous resolution; and, feigning some 
excuse, he actually started up in the midst of one of Miss Carlton 
Yere’s prettiest young lady remains, and came quickly round to 
Marguerite’s box. 

She heard the door softly open, and knew, without turning 
round, that it was Earnscliffe (at all times she could feel his pres- 
ence without seeing him). They had met already that afternoon 
in the park, and Philip seated himself without any salutation, in the 
furthest corner of the box, where the deep shadow screened him 
from observation, while Marguerite still kept her eyes upon the 
stage. Without exactly knowing why, she felt embarrassed, and 
waited for him to speak first. 

“Is it possible,” he thought, as he scanned her features, “ that 
she is only trifling with me? — coquetting, like any other woman, 
and as, for aught I know to the contrary — she may actually have 
done with that French cousin already?” From the beginning of 
time, whoever has loved has been unjust, at the slightest breath of 
jealousy. “ She did not look — when talking to that young fool just 
now— -as though it would break her heart to part with me. How- 
ever, it shall be put to the test.” 

After a few minutes’ silence, Philip said, shortly, and with ncv 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


335 


preparation — “ Mrs. Mortimer, if your attention is not too much 
engrossed with the music, I have come to wish you good-bye!” 

She started round and faltered — '' Good-bye! Oh, Mr. Earns- 
cliffe! only for a short — ” 

Four months— a year, perhaps — my absence wdth be quite in- 
definite.” 

She looked at him in utter astonishment as he spoke in this cold, 
strange tone — looked at him with compressed lips, tearful, dilated 
eyes, as no coquette in this world ever looked. 

” Another parting!” she murmured; “oh! how shall I bear it?” 

Then she turned away, and Philip saw her hand clasp tightly 
over her side, with the old gesture that any sudden pain called 
forth; and at once he was reassured of Marguerite’s sincerity. 
“ Could he leave her after this? — was he justified in breaking off 
their friendship, now that he was certain of having awakened all 
the long-buried love of that gentle nature?” 

“ Marguerite, can my actions indeed affect you so much? Will 
you bid me remain?” 

She looked round, very slowly this time, and, without saying a 
word, held out her hand to him. Earnscliffe took it; its pressure 
thrilled to his very heart, and from that moment all further irreso- 
lution on his part was over, all fainter warnings of his better nature 
unheeded — he felt that Marguerite must be his. 

“ How could you so trifle with me?” she asked, after a time. 
“ You could not indeed mean to leave again, when you have only 
just returned to England, and are so occupied with your political 
prospects? How foolish I was to believe you! But these are cruel 
jests! I have too few real friends to bear the thought of losing one 
of them.” 

“ You could really feel pain at parting with me?” 

“ Really! Oh, Mr. Earnsclife, I know how badly I dissemble — 
you must have read it on my face!” 

“ I am afraid to read your face now — afraid lest mj^ own wishes 
should read differently to the truth — afraid even to read the truth.” 

“ You speak strangely to-night; I scarcely understand you.” 

‘\Shall I be plainer. Marguerite?” 

“ Oh, hush! we are not listening to the sweetest notes of the Pic- 
-colomini ” — and she turned from him, blushing. 

“ I only hear one voice,” replied Earnscliffe; and during the re- 
mainder of the opera neither spoke again— but, for them, silence 
was now only too eloquent. 

When the last act was ovei’, Marguerite rose to leave (she never 


336 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


Stayed for the ballet), and Philip, as usual, escorted her to her car- 
riage. They had to wait some time before it came up, and both 
seemed constrained and disinclined to speak. Earnescliffe dared not 
trust himself to do so, and Marguerite, without knowing why, felt 
herself trembling nervously as she held his arm. She tried a dozen 
times to make some commonplace remark to break the silence, but 
each time the words died on her lips; and at length, with an effort, 
she exclaimed suddenly, with a forced laugh, just what she least in- 
tended to say — 

‘‘ I wonder what makes us both so dull to-night?” 

Earnscliffe bent down and whispered— something that made his^ 
companion shrink and turn cold. 

“ No, no — impossible. I can not listen to such words, even from 
you.” 

“ Then why ask me not to leave you? We can continue no- 
longer as we are now; either our intimacy must cease at once or — ” 
his voice became so low that only Marguerite’s ear could catch its 
sound. 

They were standing apart from the crowd, and where a deep 
shadow fell across them both, but Earnescliffe could see the white- 
ness of her face, as she looked up to his, and how her lips quivered. 

“Never,” she replied, slowly, and as though each word was 
wrung from her with pain “I will never leave him, nor forget all 
that I owe to him. No, not for your sake.” 

“ Then I have been mistaken,” said Philip. “ I believed that you 
loved me; that, loving me, you would make any sacrifice, even that 
of name or position, for me. I believed you incapable of trifling 
with me — as you have already done with your cousin Gaston,” he 
added, sarcastically. He had not anticipated so instant a rejection, 
and his pride was wounded by her tone. 

“ Gaston!” echoed Marguerite. “ You accuse me of trifling with 
him, and compare my feelings toward you with what I bore him! 
Then you shall hear me — I will tell you the exact truth, Mr. Earns- 
cliffe. I never cared for Gaston more than as a cousin; I misled him 
unintentionally — and — I ham loved you — loved you as a child, win n 
I was ignorant of my sin in doing so — shall never cease to love you, 
now even that 1 know my guilt. But,” she went on, passionately, 

* ‘ I will not bring dishonor on my husband — I will never cause a 
moment’s sorrow to the only one on earth who has been my friend. 
Though my heart may break in the effort, I — I will part from you,. 
Philip.” 

She took her hand from his arm, aud strove to move away, but 


PHILIP EAKilSCLIPPE. 


337 


Earriscliffe could see that she trembled too violently to be able to 
walk: and, fearing observation from the crowds of people who 
were near, he whispered hurriedly, “Mrs. Mortimer, I entreat of 
you to take my arm. I have been most wrong to speak to you 
thus, and at such a time — pardon me. I will offend no more.” 

She accepted his arm, for she felt that her limbs were powerless 
to support her; and neither uttered a word until Marguerite had 
entered the carriage. Then she bent forward, unable to part with 
him in anger, and already reproaching herself for the pain she had 
caused him. 

“Philip, if I spoke harshly, forgive me. It is better that you 
should leave — that we should not meet again; but, forget this even- 
ing, think of me with kindness, for I shall be very miserable.” 

The carriage drove away, and Philip stood gazing after it in the 
dim light, his arms folded, his lips compressed. “ She is mine,” 
he thought, “ mine already! Her last frail defense is pity for the 
old man. An hour — a moment — will overthrow it. The desire of 
my whole life is attained; the only woman I have really loved, won.” 
And he turned and walked homeward, yet with no feeling of elation 
at his heart. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

After a few hours of feverish, troubled sleep. Marguerite awoke 
to the misery of another day. She had to listen to Mortimer’s usual 
stories and extracts from the newspaper at breakfast, strive to make 
replies — parry his questions about her pale face and confused man- 
ner— tell him what she had done, and whom she had seen the night 
before. 

“ Mr. Earnscliffel— ah, he liked Mr. Earnscliffe. Why did he not 
come oftener to see them? why would he not accept their invita- 
tions to dinner now? It was very strange, as he was an old friend 
of her father’s.” And so on, while Marguerite’s hands grew colder 
and colder, and her breath came so thick she could scarcely articu- 
late a word. 

She felt intensely relieved when Mortimer departed, with the an- 
nouncement that he should not return till dinner-time, and she had 
at least the solace of being alone and unquestioned. During all the 
forenoon she remained in her own dressing-room, unoccupied and 
tearless, but with somewhat the same dull, leaden sense of oppres- 
sion upon her that she had experienced before leaving Kersaint. 
After luncheon she shut herself in the library, with orders that no 


338 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


visitors should be admitted, and then strove to exert herself to read; 
but though the words floated before her eyes, her mind did not re- 
ceive their meaning, and would recur to the all-engrossing object of 
her previous thoughts. So, aft6r mechanically turning over the 
pages for an hour or two, she laid the book aside; and then, opening 
a private drawer in one of the cases, took out a manuscript book of 
her own writing, and seating herself by the table, made a short 
entry on its last leaf. 

This book had been given her by her father on her twelfth birth- 
day, when he told her she should try and note down in it the prog- 
ress of her own mind and feelings from that day onward until she 
was a woman; and, faithful to every wish of his, Marguerite had 
continued to do so even to the present time; so that it formed a 
complete history of her whole inner life from her childhood till 
now. 

The story of her love for Earnscliffe was written with the most 
entire truthfulness • her confession of it to him on the day of the 
storm, her anguish at parting with him — all was there without a 
gloss of concealment. Then came her dreary life with the Danbys; 
then her marriage. After this there were, for two or three years, 
few entries; occasionally, a subdued expression, not of complaint, 
but of her want of interest in existence — a fear that, for Mortimer’s 
happiness, she had committed an error in marrying him. Later on 
came the description of her entrance into the world, and of all the 
admiration she received there; but still with allusions to the one 
great object that her life lacked, and whose place no triumphs of 
her beauty and talents could supply. At last came her meeting 
with Earnscliffe, and Marguerite trembled as she read over all that 
she had written since then, and compared it with the early descrip- 
tion of her love for him at Kersaint. There was so slight a differ- 
ence — only the childish simplicity of style was altered; the feeling 
was the same — or deeper! 

“It would be better destroyed,” she thought. “This journal 
records no very happy life; and if I were to die suddenly — not an 
unlikely event, I know — it would fall into Mr. Mortimer’s keeping, 
and render him miserable in the thought that I was less contented 
than he believed me. I had better destroy it. It is strange that 
my entry of to-day should All the last leaf I Is it that after this my 
real history will be over — my life have nothing more to record? 
or — ” and a vague but solemn presentiment whispered that perhaps 
her life, indeed, was almost past. 

“ I had better destroy it at once,” she repeated, slowly, and ap- 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIPPE. 


339 


proacLing toward the fire. But those pages recalled so much; the 
early entries, before she had ever known Earnscliffe, so brought 
back her childhood and Kersaint that, after hesitating some time. 
Marguerite decided she would not burn it yet. And, besides, it 
was her father's gift.” And so the book was again laid in its 
former place, and then, falteringly she drew forth some notes and 
papers that were always kept in the same drawer with her journal. 
On some of them the ink was faded now, the paper discolored. 
There were scraps of poetry, half playful, half serious, that Philip 
used to write at Kersaint — all carefully treasured, even then — and 
with them was the long letter which he had written to her from 
Tyrol. But Marguerite knew all these by heart; and, after holding 
them in her hands for a few seconds, she replaced them, and then, 
but very hesitatingly, and as though other eyes than her own were 
in the silent room, took out another packet of letters. These were, 
however, freshly written, and still in Philip’s hand. 

As Marguerite read and reread some of the ambiguously worded 
notes he had lately written to her — but to every syllable of which 
her heart could now attach a different meaning to what it had done 
when she first read them — a knock came at the door of the library. 
It was only her own maid, but Marguerite’s heart fluttered and her 
cheeks glowed with all the confusion of guilt as she entered. 

” Un billet pour madame,” presenting on a salver one of those 
notes which Marguerite knew was from Philip at a glance. 

” I see there is no answer,” she said, with forced calmness; and 
Mademoiselle Eulalie withdrew, not in the least deceived, for, though 
all the world may be blinded in such matters, a French lady’s-maid 
never can; and the first downward step in a woman’s career is when 
her owii servants suspect her. 

Marguerite tore open the letter. There were only these words : 

“ Marguerite, — The time has now come for you to decide. If 
I see you at Mrs. Lorrimer’s on Friday, I shall consider your sen- 
tence of last night recalled. If you are not there, I leave England 
aloiWy the following day.” 

The paper fell from her hand, and a sharp pain struck at Mar- 
guerite’s heart “ Cruel,” she murmured, faintly, “ cruel to make 
nie decide upon our separation, and force it upon me so soon. Yet 
it must be so, sooner or later. I might have known it could only 
end thus; it is better finished at once.” Then she laid her head 
up(»n the table and wept with one of the wild parox3^sms of her 
childhood — as she had not wept for years; and thus a full hour 
passed away. She was careless if the servants entered and saw her 


340 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 


SO — careless even of Mortimer’s return: only tke one consciousness 
of losing Philip was present to her, and she would searcely have 
heeded if the whole world had been present to witness her desola- 
tion. 

At last, slowly, she raised her pale face, and again read the note 
through, but with eyes so hot and painful she could scarcely trace 
even Earnscliffe’s bold, clear writing. “If lam not at Mrs. Lorri- 
mer’s he will leave England. If I go — but — no — no,” she cried, 
vehemently, as a wild thought of happiness would cross her brain ; 
“ I must not meet Philip again. If I am even there, he will con- 
sider my sentence recalled. I shall see him no more, then; he will 
leave me forever, and my whole life is bound up in his. Oh, m}^ 
Ood! pity me, and guide me in my weakness and my anguish!” 

She rose, replaced Philip's last note with all the others, locked the 
drawers, and went into her own room, where she bathed her face 
and strove to become more composed before her husband saw her, 
for it was already nearly the time for his return. 

As it happened, he came home rather earlier than usual and very 
hungry; and, for almost the first time since her marriage, Mar- 
guerite was late for dinner. Punctual himself to a fault, nothing 
disturbed Mortimer’s temper more than the want of punctuality in 
others. He actually spoke harshly to her when Marguerite ap- 
peared, at five minutes past seven, and faltered some gentle excuses 
for keeping dinner waiting. 

‘ Yes, ma’am: when I, with all my business, can always be in 
time for everything, I do think that you, with nothing but your 
own pleasures to think of, may manage to remember my hours. 
What kept you out so late to-day, pray?” 

“ I have not been out at all, sir. I felt very unwell, and have 
been by myself ever since you left.” 

“ Of course there is some reason always. What made the car- 
riage late, then, in calling for me yesterday in the city? You were 
so hurried going off to the opera last night that 1 was not able to 
ask you; but I will have more order in my house.” 

“ I am very sorry you were kept waiting, Mr. Mortimer: but 
Georgy came to see me in the morning, and 1 sent her home in the 
carriage, which I suppose caused the delay.” 

‘ ‘ Of course, if one of those women could get into a private car- 
riage she would drive all over the town to show off! your own sense 
might have told you that. So Georgy has been here again, eh? and 
you were all affection together, I suppose, after the manner of 
women.” 


PHILIP EARiiTSCLIFFE. 


341 


“ I received her in the spirit with which she came. It is much 
better there should he no further coolness between us. ’ ’ 

‘'Will you take my arm, Mrs. Mortimer,” he interrupted, with 
grim politeness. ” My fish is cooling, which is of far more impor- 
tance to me, you know, than the cooling of young ladies’ love.” 
With which sorry attempt at wit, he led Marguerite to the dining- 
room. 

The stately meal passed off in absolute silence. Mortimer was 
not a man who quickly recovered himself when he was ruffled, and 
Marguerite was too nervous and weak-spirited to trust herself to 
speak. 

When the servant had withdrawn and the wine was on the table, 
Marguerite began tirtiidly: "Georgy asked me to take her to Mrs. 
Lorrimer’s/e^^, yesterday.” 

" I thought she came to ask for something besides forgiveness,” 
returned Mortimer. " What did you say?” 

" Oh, she seemed so earnest about it — I did not like to refuse.” 

" Well, poor thing!” — Mortimer’s temper was a little improved 
after his first glass of port — ‘ ‘ I suppose she is making one last des- 
perate effort to be married. She is looking very old and thin; so 
you don’t mind taking her. A good foil, ma’am, eh?” 

" Well, the truth is, I wanted to ask you how I must get out of 
my promise. I told Georgy I would go — and now — and now — ” 

"You won’t take her, I suppose?” 

" Not exactly that. I have changed my mind, and don’t intend 
to go myself. ’ ’ 

"Why?” 

" Because — the fact is — I mean I have changed my mind.” 

" A mighty sensible reason, upon my word! ‘ I mean— I thought 
— I have changed my mind.’ I never expected fashionable life 
would make you silly and capricious like other women, Marguerite; 
but I see it is having the common effect. ’ ’ 

" It is not caprice, indeed it is not; I have reasons.” 

" Let me hear them.” 

Never did a tone so completely repel confidence; and Marguerite 
could only stammer out something about " not feeling well.” 

"It is not that at all. You change merely because you have 
promised that wretched woman to take her among your grand peo- 
ple, and now you think you’ll be ashamed of her when she gets 
there. You will blush, next, if I am seen driving about with you.” 

Mortimer was working himself up with his own words, until he 
grew fixedly obstinate in determining to oppose Marguerite. "It 


342 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIPPE. 


looks monstrous unkind of you, ma’am,” he jiursued, and I must 
say is very unlike your former character. Besides, how can you 
make the excuse to Mrs. Lorrimer of illness, when she sees you rid- 
ing about every day, perfectly well? Her husband has been a client 
of mine for twenty years, and I desire you. Marguerite, not to be 
capricious with her, whatever you are with all your other acquaint- 
ances.” 

” Very well, sir. I was quite wrong; but it was not caprice, I 
assure you. I will go,” answered Marguerite, her own heart, alas! 
not combating the point too resolutely. 

‘ ‘ And — 'if this important question of going or not going is settled 
— I shall have my sleep, ’ ’ said Mortimer, stretching out his large 
feet, and shutting his eyes.^ “lam tired, ma’am, and my cold fish 
has disagreed with me.” 

And Marguerite stole up in the twilight to the library, and with a 
tremulous hand wrote — 

I shall be at Mrs. Lorrimer ’s on Friday; but I recall nothing.” 

Folded, sealed, directed the note to Earnscliffe, and committed it 
to the velvet paw of Mademoiselle Eulalie. 


CHAPTER L. 

Earnscliffe only saw Marguerite once from their parting at the 
door of the opera until the day of Mrs. Lorrimer ’s/<3^^, and then but 
for a moment, as he was walking with Neville in Hyde Park. She 
was on horseback, and bowed to Philip as she passed by; but with 
a visible embarrassment most unlike her accustomed calm demeanor. 

“ By Jove! she is lovely,” was Neville’s exclamation; “ and so 
young and innocent-looking. Spare her, Phil; she is too good to 
fall.” 

“ Neville — even on the strength of our old friendship — there are 
some things I will not hear from you. What on earth do you mean 
by the expression? How am I to ‘ spare ’ Mrs. Mortimer?” 

“ I am unhappily quick at insight,” returned the artist, quietly; 
“ and know as well how things stand between you and her as you 
do yourself. Why have you not followed the advice you asked me 
for, and left town?” 

“I have acted as I considered right,” returned Philip, coldly. 
“ Let us change the subject.” 

“ Oh, as you please. It is of more importance to you than to niy- 
self — of more importance to her than to either. Apropos de rien — 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIPPE. 


343 


do you remember, Phil, how we walked together near these 
' bowery glades of Kensington, ' as somebody calls them, six years 

ago, and saw Rose Elmslie driving along in Count B ’s pony 

phaeton? You were indignant with me about some love matters, I 
remember.” 

“ Poor little Rose! what became of her, I wonder?” 

” Poor little devil! you should say. After you left England she 
went to perdition with a rapidity even greater than what I predicted 

for her. Left Count B for some one else, and then sunk lower 

and lower— took to drinking, I believe, and was hissed off the stage. ” 

” Is she dead?” asked Philip, quickly. “ I never heard this be- 
fore.” 

‘'You never remembered to ask, probably. She is not dead, my 
friend —or, I should rather say, was not so last winter. A few 
months ago I was returning home quickly in the dusk — after a long 
walk into the country to mark the effect of the red sunset over the 
frozen woods — and, as I was taking a short cut through some of the 
back streets near the Haymarket, a woman — pale, haggard, desper- 
ate-touched me on the sleeve. I turned round, and, pulling my 
arm from her with a gesture of disgust, told her, in no gentle tone, 
to leave me. ‘ I ask you for money, ’ she said, ‘ because I am 
starving. Do you refuse?’ As she spoke I caught sight of her 
face, and saw that it was — ” 

“ No — not Rose?” 

“ Yes, it was Miss Elmslie. I remembered her directly. I scan 
every face I see too deeply for it to fade from my memory; and hers 
was not one to forget. She had a peculiarly molded chin — do you 
recollect? — small, and with the slightest dimple in the center.” 

” Yes, yes! —go on.” 

“ Well, I knew her by that in a moment. ‘ You are Rose Elms- 
lie,’ I said; not concealing my horror, as you may suppose. She 
started aside at the sound of my voice, and tried to push her way 
through the coarse crowd along the pavement; but I followed, and 
entreated her to stop — at least, accept such assistance as I could 
Oder. ‘ Leave me,’ she said; ‘ I shall die soon. I want to see none 
of you again.’ Her voice was very weak, but unnaturally low and 
hollow. ‘ And you refuse any assistance?’ I repeated. ‘ Yes, from 
you, ’ she answered. ‘ You were one of Earnscliffe’s friends, let me 
pass on!’ and again I lost sight of her.” 

“ And you saw her no more?” 

” Yes, as I passed the door of a gin-palace, a few minutes later, I 
caught a glimpse of the same drooping figure, waiting silently by 


344 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


the counter for one of the glasses of ‘ forgetfulness, ’ that a smart- 
looking woman was serving out. Poor wretch!” 

Philip felt sick. ” Great God, what a world is this!” he ex- 
claimed. 

“Yes,” returned Neville, ” it is much as we make it. The world 
God sends us into is fair in itself: men create sin, and call the world 
dark. But,” he went on, ” Rose Elmslie was worthless, in heart, 
the first day you ever saw her — tainted from her childhood; her 
misery afterward is the natural conclusion to such a career, and is 
nothing, in its blackest horror, compared to the remorse of one who 
has been pure and without reproach. No hell, you know, burns so 
fiercely as that of the fallen angels!” 

” Good- morning to you,” said Philip, abruptly. ” 1 see an old 
friend whom I have not met for years.” ^ And crossing the ring, he 
left his friend alone. 

For a moment Neville watched him. Then, raising his slouched 
Italian hat upon his forehead, and folding his arms behind him, he 
marched on. Philip’s friend was an old club acquaintance whom 
he had afterward met abroad, and who had now just returned to 
England; and, glad to escape from Neville and his own thoughts, 
Earnscliffe took his arm and they walked townward together. But 
again the same subject was, singularly enough, forced upon him. 

After some minutes’ conversation upon their mutual wanderings 
since they parted, his friend remarked: “ I have wished to see you 
for several days, but have been too engaged to find you out, and 
never could see you at the club. Oh, I forgot, you don’t belong to 
mine now. Nous awns change tout cela ! and, like every one else, 
your politics are altering.” 

” Conforming to our present exigencies.” 

” Oh, that is the term, is it? However, I was going to say, I 
have often heard of your name and of more than your political 
prospects. It appears that you are au mieux with this last wonder, 
la Mortimer. Your old luck.” 

“You should rather say the old scandal of English clubs,” replied 
Earnscliffe with assumed indifference. Mrs. Mortimer’s father 
was a friend of mine, and I am intimate with them.” 

” Them! Is the husband ever seen by mortal eyes? I thought 
the venerable old stock-broker was a kind of myth — only heard of 
as supplying madame with diamonds and his name.” 

“You have been misinformed throughout, then,” said Philip, 
shortly. 

“ Eh, mon cher ! I see the ca e is serious. When a man denies 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPPE, 


345 


these things his friends had best be silent. But to turn to another 
theme. What has become of all our old friends of the coulisses, 
then? I suppose we may speak of them?” 

‘ ‘ I know nothing of them now^ — I have other interests and other 
things to think of returned Earnscliffe. Neville’s story of Rose 
was too fresh for him to risk the mention of her name. 

“ The devil you have! Well, after being abroad so long as I 
have, one does not know what to speak of on one’s return. One 
man has become a Dissenter— another a Papist, a third a Glad- 
stonite — and a fourth turns up his eyes when actresses are spoken 
of, and denies his lonnes fortunes. For Heaven’s sake, Earnscliffe, 
come and dine with me, and let us talk over old days.” 

But Philip pleaded an engagement — as glad to escape from his 
friend as he was, five minutes before, from Neville — and, tired of 
the sunshine and crowds of people, returned to the solitary room at. 
his hotel, and fiung himself on his sofa, not to sleep, although he 
had not slept for two nights, but to think. Think — commune with 
his own heart for the last time before the overwhelming temptation 
which he knew the morrow — only a few hours more — would bring. 
From the moment that he received Marguerite’s note saying that 
she would once more see him, he knew that she was his (even if any 
doubt before existed). The contest was too unequal to last much 
longer; her exceeding trust in him, her ignorance of her own dan- 
ger, made the result but too certain. And again, as it had done so 
often years before, the accusing thought would present itself, “You 
are betraying God’s holiest work, the innocence of a child.” 

It was no pleasant thought! He rose and paced uneasily about 
his room, striving — not to combat with the wild dictates of passion; 
they had remained too long uncontrolled to be under his power now 
— but to seek out some extenuation with which to satisfy his con- 
science. “She was mine, in reality, years ago,” he said, half 
aloud. “ Mine, heart and soul, from her childhood. What is any 
mere conventional tie compared to that? If I left her now, her ex- 
istence would be one long-continued misery — constantly endeavor- 
ing to fulfill her duty as another man’s wife — seeking vainly to 
crush what is part of her very life — her love for me! But, if this 
remorse Neville speaks of is, indeed, inevitable, will not that be a 
bitterer anguish? for one so pure to feel that she has become — 
Pshaw! my devotion will make her forget all that— and everything 
beside — I wish the dragging hours would wear away! I shall be 
calmer when all is decided. Will to-morrow never come?” 

He waited impatiently until evening; then, when it w^as dusk. 


346 


PHILIP EAKNSCLIPFE. 


unable any longer to bear the oppression of solitude and of his own 
meditations, he ordered his horse and rode down to Wimbledon, 
where he dismounted at the inn, and walked on toward Mortimer’s 
place, but without entering the gates. He saw nothing of Mar- 
guerite, of course; she was alone all the time in the library, writing 
in her journal — the last entry she ever made there — but it was 
enough that he breathed the same air, could catch a glimpse of the 
walls that inclosed his idol, and he lingered, unnoticed by any one, 
until near midnight, and then, under the solemn starlight, rode back 
to town. 

Not quite unnoticed. Mr. Grimes, the butler, had been out on 
honorable business of his own, and calling on his friend the inn- 
keeper, heard that Earnscliife had left his horse there. 

“ And not come to us!” pondered Grimes. “ What’s up now?” 
And that worthy man dodged and peeped, and found Philip, and 
stole after him, and saw how he looked toward the house, and 
paused, and half spoke, and walked quickly on, only to return and 
gaze again. And then Grimes returned home, well pleased with 
what he had seen, and burning to relate it in the servants’ hall. 

The next morning shone out bright, but not sultry; and by the 
afternoon it was one of those sweet, still summer days of which there 
are about six in the English year — the very weather for an out-of- 
door fete. At four o’clock the Mortimers’ carriage called in Tavis- 
tock Street and found Georgy ready-dressed, and in great excite- 
ment at the expected dissipation, and the' pleasure of breathing the 
same atmosphere and looking at the same trees and flowers as three 
or four hundred “ great people,” during a whole long evening. 

She returned to “Wimbledon for Marguerite, and had to wait for 
some time in the drawing-room before she appeared. “ Marguerite 
had had a headache,” her husband said, “ and had begun to dress 
late.” 

" Quite unusual to see you at home, Mr. Mortimer; I thought 
you were always in the city at this hour.” 

“ I am not very well; I have not felt myself for the last week, 
and Maggy persuaded me that I ought to staj^ at home and be quiet. 
However, I must go to town for an hour or two when you are 
gone. ’ ’ 

“ Dear Marguerite has not been looking very well either lately.” 

“ Dear Marguerite has been -to too many parties. Miss de Burgh. 
She will be as blooming as a rose after I take her to the sea.” 

‘‘Oh! I am delighted to hear that it is nothing but fatigue that 
made her so pale, but she seemed so ver^^ low and nervous.” 


PHILIP EAKiq'SCLIFFE. 


347 


The door opened and Marguerite entered, her complexion brighter 
than usual, and her whole appearance giving the most direct denial, 
to Georgy’s kind misgivings. 

“ Very like an invalid,” said Mortimer, proudly. “ But, Maggy, 
dear, how oddly you are dressed! That white muslin gown — plain 
little white bonnet, and no ornaments. What is this new fancy for 
dressing like a school-girl, eh?” 

“My dress is very handsome, ” returned Marguerite; “it is the 
new- worked muslin you gave such a price for last week; and my 
bonnet has only just arrived from Paris. You know it is my 
French fancy, sir, to dress simply and with only real flowers for 
ornaments, at a summer /efe.” 

” Well, you always look well, child, however you dress. At least, 
here are fine flowers for you, ’ ’ and he presented her with a bouquet, 
composed entirely of early moss rosebuds and Cape jasmine. 

‘'How lovely!” said Marguerite; ‘‘how, exactly my taste. It* 
looks more like a French bouquet than one of Cami^bell’s making.” 

” I don’t know that it is not his,” replied Mortimer; ” I found it 
just now on the table, where some of the servants placed it, I sup- 
pose. ’ ’ 

” I ordered two — one for each of us,” said Marguerite. “ What 
is Campbell thinking about!” She rang the bell, and her page 
answered it, with two gorgeous bouquets of hot-house flowers on a 
salver. 

” Then, who brought this one?” she inquired, coloring, without 
knowing why. 

“ That was left by a servant on horseback, madame, an hour 
ago. There was no message. ” 

” From some of your numerous admirers, 1 suppose,” said Morti- 
mer, when the page left%the room. 

” One who knows Marguerite’s taste well, at all events,” added 
Georgy. ‘‘Cape jasmine and moss-roses are your favorite flowers, 
dear, are they not?” 

‘‘ It looks mighty well with your white dress, Maggy, whoever 
sent it. I suppose you’ll neglect my rare flowers now?” 

“ Which shall I take, sir? I don’t care,” hesitated Marguerite. 

” Little hypocrite!” thought Georgy. 

” Which shall you take? — whichever you like the best, to be sure! 
Perhaps the simple flowers suit your style best.” 

” Old idiot!” thought Georgy. “ Earnsclift'e sent it, and it means 
something if she wears it.” 

So Marguerite took the roses and Cape jasmine for herself, and 


348 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 


placed the bouquet Georgy did not choose in a vase on the table. 

. Then she turned to her husband, ‘ ' Do you feel really better 
now?” she whispered. I scarcely like leaving you, if you are 
unwell. ” 

‘ ‘ I am much better, thank you, ’ ' returned Mr. Mortimer, who 
hated to be thought ill. It was nothing; I shall go into town for 
an hour, and return home as well as ever for my dinner. That 
reminds me, Maggy— what did you do with those papers I gave you 
yesterday morning, when I left in such a hurry. I hope you have 
them safe?” 

” I locked them up with my letters,” replied Marguerite. “ Do 
you want them? I will run and bring them for you in a moment. ” 

She went up to the library, unlocked the secret drawer, where, 
for safety, she had placed Mortimer’s papers, took them out, and 
then — flurried by the incident of the bouquet, and thinking nothing 
of what she was about — came down again leaving the drawer open. 
That drawer contained her diary and Philip’s letters. 

“ Here they are,” she said to her husband, “ quite safe, although 
I had the charge of them.” 

” Thank you, my dear. And if you will give me permission, I 
shall go and sit in your own sanctum myself for an hour. It is the 
coolest room in the house of an afternoon.” 

Little knowing what the seemingly trivial request involved, Mar- 
guerite smilingly assented; and in a few minutes she and Georgy 
were on the road. As they approached Richmond they passed, and 
were passed in return, by numbers of gay carriages and young 
men on horseback, all on their way to i\iQ fete. 

“ We are not late,” said Georgy, ” at all events. Judging from 
the numbers of people we see, there can }}e scarcely any one theu^ 
yet.” 

“ Oh!” returned Marguerite, “I knew we should be in good 
time.” 

‘ ‘ What hosts of people you know. Marguerite. Every one we 
have seen yet has bowed.” . 

‘ ‘ I know ‘ everybody, ’ as the English phrase is. I am literally 
tired of bowing already.” 

” Who is that girl who passed us last? she is pretty.” 

” Miss Carlton Vere. She is considered the beauty of the season. 
That was Digby Grant, the dandy par excellence, who was riding 
by their carriage.” 

'' Yes, I know him by sight; he has four thousand a year; and 


X 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


349 


liis uncle is Dean of Coventry, and his cousin is member for B . 

I should like to be introduced to him, dear.” 

“ I can introduce you to any one you wish, Georgy; so mind if 
you do not meet many friends of your own, you must tell me whom 
you wish to know. ” 

“Oh, thank you! the Count de Montravers will be there, how- 
ever, and in his society I naturally care for no other. ’ ’ 

“ Georgy, I begin to think you are engaged to the comte.” 

‘ ‘ One need not be engaged to everybody in whose society one 
finds pleasure,” said Miss de Burgh, tartly, “ as you must be well 
aware. ’ ’ 

Marguerite colored but made no reply — she seldom did to Miss 
Georgy’s speeches — indeed, she forgot what they were talking 
about a moment afterward. She was looking nervously at every 
group of young men they passed, wondering, hoping, fearing 
whether Philip were among them. But she saw nothing of him; 
and they soon arrived at Mrs. Lorrimer’s pretty villa, where the 
crowd of carriages and people, sounds of music, and distant mar- 
quees in the grounds, announced the gay scene that was going on. 

The entrance hall was completely wreathed with flowers; and 
through this they were ushered to a room on the.ground floor, open- 
ing upon the lawn, where Mrs. Lorrimer received her guests before 
they dispersed into the grounds. 

Marguerite presented Georgy with her usual quiet grace; and 
Miss de Burgh was quite flattered at the well-bred-smile of Mrs. 
Lorrimer, which she mistook for the commencement of an ac- 
quaintance, although in truth the lady never thought of her again 
from that moment to this. 

“ I advise you to take refuge in the gardens, Mrs. Mortimer; you 
will find the lower lawn by the riv^r delightfully cool, while the sun 
remains so high.” 

And a crowd of young men surrounded Marguerite, all anxious 
to dance attendance on the celebrated beauty, who, in addition to 
her lovely face and irresistible charm of manner, possessed the 
stongest attraction of all — that of being the fashion — and the fashion 
too, with so notorious and fastidious a man as Earnscliffe. 

“ Mr. Hollingsworth, let me introduce you to my cousin. Miss de 
Burgh,” said Marguerite, addressing a boyish-looking youth with 
an incipient mustache, who colored to the eyes, and at once became 
the victim of Georgy’s charms, without hope of release for an hour 
or two. 

“ Isn’t it delightful?” she cried, as they followed Marguerite and 


350 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


her tr^in upon the lawn. “ I love these free, wild things in the 
open air so much better than balls; don’t you?” 

” I haven’t been to many — Cambridge is so slow.” 

” Cambridge! dear me! Have you not left college?” (Mr. Holl- 
ingsworth looked about fifteen.) 

“No; this is only my first term.” 

” And do you care for dancing?’ ’ 

” I have only danced at school,” would have been the truthful 
reply; but Mr. Hollingsworth merely said — “ Not very much;” and 
Georgy returned — ” Nor . she either. Keally pleasant conversation 
was far better than waltzing. Did Mr. Hollingsworth know where 
that darling little shady walk led to; Could it be to the river?” 

And Georgy and her new friend soon disappeared, rather, it must 
be confessed, to Marguerite’s relief, who, though perfectly above 
the vulgar feeling of being ashamed of any one, was not anxious to 
have Georgy’s close attendance the whole day. 

Slie walked about, and felt that every eye was bent upon her as 
she moved. Among all the brilliant women there, hers was the 
most recherche toilet — hers the loveliest face. Never, in her first 
se? on, had she created a greater sensation than to-day; and, of 
course, she was aware of it. But to herself the whole scene was 
without interest, all the admiration she awakened was worthless. 
Earnscliffe was not there, and in his absence everything beside was 
blank. 


CHAPTER LI. 

“Dear Mrs. Mortimer,” said a kindly voice close behind her, 
“ it is so long since I have seen you!” 

Marguerite turned and recognized Lady Millicent Gore, one of 
her earliest friends. They shook hands, and Lady Millicent made 
room for her on the seat beside herself. 

“You young people will have so much dancing this evening, you 
must reserve your strength; and not stand or walk while the day 
continues so hot. ” 

“ I never dance now,” replied Marguerite, “ but I am delighted 
to have found a place by you.” 

“Never dance?” repeated her friend. “ Is it possible that you 
have renounced dancing at your age? You used to be so famous 
for your waltzing.” 

“I don’t think I really cared for it; but I found it dull at balls to 


PHILIP EARNSCLIPFE. 


351 


sit out and watch others dancing, without doing so myself. I have 
given it up now, I am not very strong.” 

“You look well; but perhaps you are flushed at this moment. 
You must make your husband take you abroad this summer, to get 
over all the fatigues of your London season.” 

“ Oh, that is already settled. We are going to Brittany in a few 
weeks, to visit my old home there.” 

‘ ‘ I remember you told me all about your place in Brittany, the 
first evening I ever saw you, at my sister’s house. Speaking of that 
evening reminds me of your cousin, the Marquis de St. Leon; what 
has become of him lately?” 

“ Gaston has returned to France; he forms one of the new 
government already.” 

“ The new government? 1 thought he was an ultra-Legitimist.” 

“So he used to be,” said Marguerite, smiling, “but — ” she 
turned white, then flushed crimson. In the distance her eyes had 
caught one glimpse of Philip. “ What did I say?” she added 
vaguely. 

“ Poor thing!” thought Lady Millicent. “ Is it possible her cous- 
in interested her so much? with such a husband, however, it is not 
wonderful.” And delicately changing the subject, she began 
speaking of some of the people who were walking up and down on 
the lawn before them. “ Miss Carlton Vere is very pretty,” she re- 
marked, after a few dear friends had been discussed. “ But it is 
not a style I at all admire — do you?” 

“ Oh! every one must think her lovely,” replied Marguerite, in 
rather an absent tone. 

“Yes, but her consciousness of her own beauty greatly diminishes 
its charm. She wants your unaffectedness, Mrs. Mortimer. Look at 
her now, as she walks with Mr. Earnscliffe, and shakes back her 
long fair curls while she looks up at him. Do you suppose it is a 
case of serious attention?” 

Lady Millicent went so seldom into the world, that she was un- 
aware even if Marguerite and Earnscliffe were acquainted; and con- 
tinued making the most unconscious remarks upon his apparent 
devotion to Miss Carlton Vere. “ He is really distinguished look- 
ing,” she said. “ Not only is his face handsome, but his manner, 
and whole air are so unlike most young men that one sees. Do you 
not agree with me?” 

“ Mr. Earnscliffe is good-looking,” answered Marguerite. 

“ Good-looking! my dear, what very qualified praise. Of course 
you have read his writings. Are you not warmer in your admira- 


352 


PHILIP EARNSCLIFPE. 


tion of them than their author? Oh! you are acquainted with him 
then,” as Earnscliffe passed, and took off his hat to Marguerite; 

now tell me what his conversation is like?” 

And Marguerite had to talk of Philip for a good half-hour to 
Lady Millicent Gore (who felt an especial interest in authors) and 
all this time to watch Philip in earnest, and apparent devoted con- 
versation with Miss Carlton Yere; while that young creature smiled 
and blushed, and shook back her curls more playfully each time as 
she passed the spot where Marguerite was seated. 

‘‘ The sun iS pouring full upon us,” she cried at last — too weary 
and impatient to listen even to the gentle Lady Millicent. ” Will 
you not change your position?” 

Thank you, my dear. I like this place; and I don’t feel the 
sun in the least. But I will keep you no longer; you have already 
devoted nearly an hour to an old woman — which, for the belle of a 
fete like this, is indeed sufficient.” 

So Marguerite rose, and taking the arm of Digby Grant — who 
had been hovering patiently near her for some time — walked with 
him toward the river. He was an agreeable man, in spite of his 
affectation, and only too anxious that Mrs. Mortimer should consider 
him so; but she was strangely absent to-day, and replied d trmers 
to his prettiest speeches while he led her, unconscious how far she 
was going, to a remote part of the lawn, where, as yet, none of the 
others had penetrated. 

‘‘ Would you like to escape this terrific sun, Mrs. Mortimer? — 
that rustic boat-house looks inviting. ’ ’ 

“ As you please; yes, certainly. And Marguerite entered, really 
glad to be away from the crowd, and only wishing her companion 
would leave her. 

” Pray don’t let me take you away from everybody, Mr. Grant. 

I am so tired, I shall remain here for half an hour; but do return to 
the lawn without me. You may come back for me as late as you 
please.” 

” I am only too thankful to be away,” he replied; “ these odious 
mixed things are my horror — people of all kinds — you don’t know 
who is who! The last time I was at Mrs. Lorrimer’s she had some 
dreadful Syrian wretches, whom I remembered as shoe-blacks in 
their own country. To-day there are still worse atrocities. Actu- 
ally I saw that man, calling himself the Count de Montravers — a 
man who would be received in no decent societ}- in France, but 
whom English people will invite, and listen to, while he descants 


/ 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFFE. 


353 


on the regeneration of England. I had only one object in coming 
here, Mrs. Mortimer.” 

“ Could you not shelter me from the sun? Thank you. It fell 
full upon my face.” 

“ Let me hold your parasol? No. Your bouquet, then— your 
hands are full;” and he took Marguerite’s — Philip’s — bouquet, and 
inhaled its fragrance with great gusto. 

” Pray do not shake them to pieces,” she said at last. See, 
one rose-bud has fallen out already.” 

” Which I may keep for my guerdon,” he replied, picking it up, 
and preparing to place it in his coat. 

” No, no,” interrupted Marguerite, eagerly; ” give me the flower, 
if you please, and I can replace it. I never give away my flowers.” 

” Are they so valued for their own sakes, or for that of the 
donor?” in rather a piqued tone at her refusal. 

“For their own sakes,” replied Marguerite, coloring; “flowers 
are my passion — I — ” 

Just then she caught the sound of a well-known step, advancing 
on the gravel path beside them, and, in another moment, Earns- 
cliife’s tall figure was visible. He was alone, and after glancing at 
her and her companion, walked slowly on with a very slight salu- 
tation, and his face calm and grave as usual. 

“ He must believe that I am happy without him,” thought Mar- 
guerite. “ That I am encouraging the idle attentions of another 
already.” And this idea, that to many women would have been 
one of entire satisfaction, gave her such intolerable pain, that she 
rose hastily, and proposed returning toward the house at once. 

Meantime, Georgy had lost Mr. Hollingsworth, who, after a series 
of maneuvers, contrived to slip away from her among the crowd; 
and, for about half an hour, failing to spy out Marguerite, she had 
wandered along, as is the habitude of obscure persons at large 
assemblies, unnoticed by anybody, except those few who languidly 
raised their eye-glasses, and classed her among Mrs. Lorrimer’s 
“oddities.” At length, she met her friend, the Comte de Mon- 
travers, and seized upon him with an avidity that should have been 
most flattering to the foreigner. Like Miss de Burgh, however, he 
was on the look-out for great people, himself, and he was not par- 
ticularly anxious to be the attendant of an unknown person of two- 
and-thirty, nor nearly so empress^ in his manner as when they took 
morning walks together in the mystic regions of Brunswick Square; 
and he passed on, after a short conversation. So Georgy was again 
12 


354 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFPE. 


discomfited; and, when, at length, she joined Marguerite, was not 
in the best of tempers. 

“ Where in the world have you been?” she exclaimed. “ Since 
I saw you disappear in the distance, two hours ago, with Digby 
Grant, 1 have never met you. It appears he is your adorer, after 
all, not Philip Earnscliffe, who, I can assure you, has been devoted 
to that lovely Miss Carlton Vere the whole afternoon. I have met 
them a dozen times together. But how pale you look. Can’t you 
introduce me to some one as you promised you would? Mr. Grant 
for instance. ” 

“He is talking to Mrs. Lorrimer at this moment. Tell me the 
names of any other people you wish to know.” 

And Marguerite — weary and spiritless though she was—tried to 
exert herself for Miss de Burgh; and, ever ready to please another, 
walked about with her, and introduced her to everybody she wished, 
even to Digby Grant, who raised one eyebrow and bent his head 
just sufficiently to move his topmost curl at the introduction. But 
Georgy was radiant with smiles, and soon appended herself to some 
of her new acquaintance with such determined pertinacity that 
Marguerite felt she was fairly disposed of for the remainder of the 
evening, and also that she would have to wait many a long hour 
before Miss de Burgh would choose to leave. 

The dancing was now at its height; and the two large marquees 
on the lawn, brilliantly lighted, were thronged with dancers and 
lookers-on; while many there were better pleased to wander about 
the grounds where hundreds of colored lamps glimmered in the dark 
summer night. Marguerite was standing somewhat apart from the 
entrance to the principal tent, and for the moment unattended; her 
head turned away from the light and music, toward the silent river 
beneath, when, close beside her, she heard Philip’s voice. 

“ Mrs. Mortimer — Marguerite, may I dare to offer you my arm?” 
She started, and her heart beat so violently she could not answer. 
Then she placed her hand, almost without knowing that she did so, 
upon his arm. 

“ Can you spare five minutes from all this gay scene; from all 
your admirers, while you say good-bye to an old friend?’' 

“Philip!” (The altered tone of her voice shocked him.) “lam 
very weary; I hate all this crowd and glare; and I should have left 
already, but — ” 

He led her down a narrow side-walk — the same Georgy and Mr. 
Hollingsworth had previously discovered — and, in a few minutes, 
they were as completely alone as though they were at Kersaint. 


PHILIP EARIISCLIFPE. 


355 


Only the sounds of the distant music were there to remind them of 
the scene they had left. The warm, soft air — the odor from the 
garden flowers — the uncertain light of the stars — the presence of 
each other — was all they were awake to. In those few minutes, the 
world, and all belonging to it, were forgotten. Marguerite’s hand 
was upon his arm; she heard his voice again — more dear even from 
those few days of separation — and her life, that had just before 
seemed so void, was again a glowing, delicious heaven. 

“You are pale now. Marguerite! and yet so flushed a few hours 
ago; are you not well?” 

“ Did you really notice me before this? I thought you were too 
much occupied to think of my appearance.” 

“You could not really believe it. I might as well atfect jealousy 
of the butterflies that have been hovering about you — of Digby 
Grant, because I saw you with him alone, when he was holding my 
flowers for you. Marguerite, our feelings are too deep for these 
small fears.” 

. “Your flowers? they were indeed from you, then?” and the 
hand that held them unconsciously pressed them closer. 

“ Did you not feel that they were from me? Believing they were 
from a strauger would you have worn them? Oh! do not let us 
attempt any longer to dissemble. Marguerite, the hour has come 
when that has passed forever. I received your note telling me to be 
here, and 1 am here. My conduct to-day has only been* assumed to 
mislead the idle world, who already may have spoken of the attach- 
ment which I have vainly tried to hide — ” 

“But I told you to hope nothing — that I retracted nothing. I 
came here that this might be our last meeting. Oh, Philip! you 
do not know the agony that I have passed through since I saw you, 
how I have striven and prayed — as much for your sake as my own 
— to overcome this love that can only end in misery.” 

“And in vain. Marguerite! tell me so; whatever happens, let 
me once more hear from those dear lips that you love me — once 
more.” 

They had now reached the river, whose liquid masses floated by 
in their black stillness beneath them, and Marguerite shuddered 
as the chilly air from the water struck upon her heated cheek. She 
shrunk to Philip's side, and his blood became fire as he felt her 
slight form clinging as it were to him for protection. He thought 
of the world’s cold breath, already raised to wither Marguerite’s 
good fame, and — strange sophistry — felt that his honor constituted 
him her protector. 


356 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


“ Philip, you could not urge me thus, if it were wrong. You are 
so much better and wiser than I — Philip — will it really make you 
happier if I once more tell you the secret of my existence — the secret 
that will make my whole life a blank evermore? Then hear me — I 
love you still as I did at Kersaint!” 

Her voice sunk to the lowest whisper, but Earnscliffe heard it 
still. He seized both her cold hands suddenly with his own — 

“ Marguerite!” — (his voice, too, was low, and altered in its sound 
from what she had ever known it before) — let this moment, then, 
decide our destiny. You say that you love me still— that that love 
will make your whole life a blank without me — be mine, then! I 
know the sacrifice I ask of you — the sacrifice of good name, of 
position, of all that women hold dear, and that against this, my pas- 
sionate love, my utter devotion, are all that I have to offer. Come 
with me, to another country, where in our love all the disappoint- 
ments of the past shall be forgotten, and we will live for each other 
alone;” and his arm was thrown round her trembling form. 

But Marguerite even yet shrunk back. “ Let me go!” she whis- 
pered, very faintly. “ Let me return to my home — to my husband; 
I will not bring dishonor upon him!” 

‘‘As you will, madame!” He released his hold instantly. “I 
was wrong in supposing that for my love you could so readily give 
up your fair fame. You speak of his honor, and forget that 1, 
too, should 'forfeit every ambition, every prospect in life, and deem 
their loss as nothing if I possessed you. Oh, Marguerite!” — his 
voice sinking again into its deepest, most passionate tenderness — 
” forgive me! I know not what I say. I can not lose you! Oh, 
Marguerite, Marguerite! remember all the years that we have loved 
each other — that you were mine, in heart, at least, before your 
husband ever knew you — that years ago you promised me never to 
love another. ” 

” Philip, I have kept my word. ” 

Then redeem it now — now, when all my happiness in this life 
depends upon your decision.” 

“ Philip— ah, may God help me!— I can have no will but yours.” 

He folded her to his breast; he knew that she was his. But, even 
at that moment, he could hear the unnatural throbbing of her heart, 
and mark that the face upturned to his was one of agony. The 
hell of a fallen angel had already begun. With the first breath of 
guilt a dark shadow had fallen across Marguerite’s love. 

“ Mine, mine!” whispered Earnscliffe, tenderly. “Death only 
shall part us now. ” 


PHILIP EARKSCLIPPE, 


357 


“ Death!” she repeated with a shudder; “ yes, you are right to 
speak of death — ” 

“ When years of radiant life are spread before us? In Italy, in 
the sweet south, my Marguerite, we shall at length be happy to- 
gether— happy as we should have been long ago, if fate had not de- 
videdus.” 

“ Ay, fate!” she answered, dreamily, “ there was an evil fate in 
my mother’s destiny and in mine. Both married where they could 
not love; she died young, as 1 shall.” 

“ My own love, do not speak of dying. In my new-born joy, do 
not cause me the torture of thinking that I could ever lose you.” 

” Philip, I am yours — wrong, lost though I may be — I am yours. 
I shall never part from you now. My love is interwoven with my 
very life, and can only end with it. But it will not be for very 
long. Something tells me, even at this moment, that I shall die. 
When the summer comes again, and you are breathing another 
warm night such as this, you will be alone: but you will still think 
fondly of me, still hold my remembrance dearer than all other, and 
in that thought is almost happiness sufficient.” 

She looked up at him with one of those ineffably sweet smiles 
that I never saw on any countenance but hers, and laid her head 
upon his arm. The gesture was so natural, so innocent, so like Mar- 
guerite, so unlike guilt, that Earnscliffe’s conscience recoiled even 
yet from her betrayal. “ My life’s devotion must atone to her for 
all she loses,” was his inward resolution while he bent over the 
pale, upturned face. 

As though any human devotion could make atonement for sin to 
a nature like hers! 

******* 

” How frightfully ill Mrs. Mortimer looks!” said one of a group 
of friends, when, leaning on Philip’s arm, she re-entered the ball- 
room; “ and so wild and haggard! See how her eyes wander round, 
as though she saw nothing, and how she clings to him! Things are 
approaching a crisis.” 

” Oh, I have foreseen it long; indeed, I have not taken my Sophia 
Jane at all latterly, when I called at the Mortimers’. From the 
first moment I saw her and Earnscliffe together, I knew how it 
would end: there was something so bold looking about her to me.” 

” Mrs. Mortimer bold-looking!” chimed in Digby Grant, who 
though a rival, was more generous than female friends. ” She looks 
more like dying than anything else at this moment; but who could 
ever call such a face as hers bold?” 


358 PHILIP EAKKSCLIFPE, 

** Oh, of course, Mr. Grant I men always admire that style of per- 
son. I can not appreciate the excessive innocence of a married 
woman who carries on these kinds of desperate flirtations. If I 
were Mm. Lorrimer, I should dislike having the denoxiement at my 
house — for a denouement there is I am certain.” 

She is fainting, by George!” exclaimed Digby. 

“ Look at Mr. Earnsclitfe’s face! AYliat a disgusting exhibition!” 
broke in two or three plain young women; and soon a score of dif- 
ferent stories were in circulation — “ Earnscliffe had said something 
to Mrs. Mortimer, which made her faint dead away on the spot!” — 
“Jealous of his attentions to Miss Carlton Yere!” — “ Fainted as 
Earnscliffe was running away with her in her own carriage!” and 
so on. 

But Marguerite knew and heard nothing. She was in a deep 
swoon; and when at length she partially recovered, she found her- 
self in the open air, with only her kind friend Lady Millicent beside 
her. 

“ Where am I? Is he here?” were her first incoherent words. 

“You have fainted, my dear Mrs. Mortimer — you are ill,” said a 
gentle voice, which Marguerite at once recognized. “ As soon as 
you have recovered, you had better return home at once.” 

“Home!” said Marguerite, wildly. “No, no — not home! any- 
where but there. I can not return home!” 

Lady Millicent ’s face became very grave. 

“ Can all this possibly arise from any recollection of her cousin?” 
she thought. “ Every one is mentioning Mr. Earnscliffe’s name; 
but this morning they seemed barely acquainted.” 

“ Dear me! what is all this scene, Marguerite?” cried a loud, 
woman’s voice. “ Have you really fainted?” 

“ Georgy, let us go. I am very ill.” 

“Go? at nine o’clock? Thank you, my dear! I have made a 
great many agreeable acquaintances, and I have not the least idea 
of going.” 

Lady Millicent looked round with perfect horror at Miss de Burgh. 
“ Are your movements controlled by that — lady?” she whispered to 
Marguerite. 

“I brought her with me. I believe I must wait until she is 
ready. But I am, indeed, weary and ill, Georgy/’ she added, look- 
ing imploringly toward her. 

“Can I take care of your friend?” interposed Lady Millicent, 
overcoming her repugnance to the friend’s appearance, in her kind 
feeling to Marguerite. 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


359 


“ Oh, Lady Millicent! you are too kind.’’ 

“ Lady Millicent, ” sounded sweet to Georgy’s ears, and she be- 
came affectionate immediately that she discovered the little, plainly 
dressed old lady was an earl’s daughter. 

“ Dear Marguerite, if you are indeed ill, of course we will go at 
once. I thought it was merely a passing weakness.” 

“ My chaperonage and escort are entirely at your friend’s serv- 
ice,” again remarked Lady Millicent. “ Only let me see you safely 
into your carriage at once. Y ou are not in a state to remain one 
moment in yonder crowded rooms.” And a servant was sent to 
order Mrs. Mortimer’s carriage; while Georgy, with many smiles, 
tried to ingratiate herself with her new acquaintance. 

“ Dear Marguerite was not very strong, did faint sometimes; the 
cool drive home would refresh her; it was so kind of Lady Millicent 
to offer to chaperone herself!” and so on; during all of which Mar- 
guerite still clung weakly to her friend’s arm, whose disgust at Miss 
Georgy’s selfishness increased with every word she uttered. 

Earnscliffe was hovering near, though afraid to attract attention 
by approaching closer; but when the carriage was announced, he 
advanced and offered Marguerite his arm. 

“ Good-night, my dear Mrs. Mortimer. I shall come and see you 
to-morrow morning.” 

“ Good-night, Lady Millicent!” lingering wistfully, as they shook 
hands. “ You have been very kind to me. Good-night.” Mar- 
guerite felt they were parting for the last time, and her voice was 
thick and husky. “ Good-night, Georgy. ” 

And then, threading their way through the crowds who pressed 
round them, to stare upon her face, Earnscliffe led Marguerite to 
the carriage. 

Farewell, my own love!” he whispered, as she took her place. 
“We shall meet to-morrow, and part no more— only a few short 
hours.” 

“ Oh, Philip! a strange fear is upon me. I tremble at being 
alone,” she replied. 

He bent forward, as though to present her bouquet, which he still 
held, and pressed his lips upon her hand. It was icy cold, too cold 
even for his kiss to warm it, and he felt that she was trembling 
- violently. 

“Drive home as fast as possible,” he said to the coachman. 
“ Mrs. Mortimer has been taken ill.” And in another moment he 
watched the carriage disappear which bore her from him. 

Then Philip returned to the ball-room, where he paid so muchAt- 


360 


PHILIP PARKSCLIFPE. 


tention to Miss Carlton Vere, that people began to think, after all, 
they had been mistaken in their suspicions; and Miss Georgy re 
fleeted with pleasure how she would tell Marguerite that Mr. Earns- 
cliffe seemed to enjoy himself a vast deal better after her departure. 


CHAPTER LII. 

Alone, through the silent night, Marguerite drove home. The 
lights, the confused sounds of music, were still flashing through her 
heated brain; but, clear above them all, rang Philip’s last words — 

To-morrow, and we shall part no more;” while ever, like a death- 
knell to that tumultuously happy thought, her own heart echoed — 

To morrow, and no more peace; to-morrow, and I shall no longer 
dare to speak of my childhood or my father. My father!” and the 
remembrance of his poor, passionless face, of his perfect integrity, 
his unwavering principle, awed her into a sense of her own guilt, 
deeper than what any thought of Mortimer could have awakened. 

As she proceeded, every object by the way-side took the form of 
something connected with Kersaint. The waving branches of the 
Park trees, overhanging the road, seemed to her excited imagination 
the ancient Breton forests; the groups of laborers, returning late 
from hay-making, bore semblance to the peasants she had not seen 
for years. She passed a cottage garden, and some white lilies, 
shining calmly in the moonlight, brought back the altar in the old 
cathedral, decked for early mass. And all rose up in judgment 
against her. 

“ But it is for him P’ she exclaimed, in her terror at the invisible 
presence she felt around — as though the mention of his name could 
overpower that — “ to be with Philip, who is dearer than life itself 1 
Whatever the sin, whatever the misery, he wishes it; and I have no 
other will. ’ ’ 

Then she leaned back in the carriage, and closed her eyes; she 
could not bear the light of the stars to-night — even they seemed 
watching her reproachfully. And, in addition to this tension of 
mental pain, there was a fiery sensation in her brain, a quick, un- 
even throbbing at her heart, different to what she had ever ex- 
perienced before, and which heightened into actual agony as she 
approached home. 

To meet Mortimer again — once more to lay her head beside the 
old man’s trusting heart, and know that on the morrow she would 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


361 


leave him, in loneliness and dishonor — was something so utterly 
abhorrent, so foreign to Marguerite’s nature, that, even under the 
strong sway of irresistible passion— with Philip’s kiss still warm 
upon her hand— she shrunk loathingly from herself and the task be- 
fore her. 

“Better,” she thought, “never to see him again — nevermore 
enter the home he has given me — than thus betray him to the last!” 

And once the desperate purpose half arose of bidding the coach- 
man drive on to town — anywhere except home? But where could 
she go? — to Philii)? — she revolted instantly from the thought. To 
Lady Millieent Grore? What pretext could she form for such an ex- 
traordinary action? And thus, while she deliberated and wavered 
an abrupt turn of the carriage told Marguerite that she had already 
entered her own lodge-gates— she was already home. 

When she reached the front door, her limbs trembled so that she 
could scarcely totter from the carriage to the house; and, but for 
the servant, who caught her arm, she would have sunk upon the 
threshold. 

“ Where — where is Mr. Mortimer?” she gasped, hardly conscious 
of what she said. 

“ My master is in the library; he has been there all the after- 
noon,” answered the man, terrified at the ghastly paleness of his 
young mistress. “ Lord, madame! has anything happened?” 

“ Give me a light,” said Marguerite, in a calm, composed tone. 
“ In the library!” she murmured to herself, and the fact of having 
left the drawer open which contained her letters and journal, 
flashed upon her mind with sudden clearness. ‘ ‘ Then he knows 
all!” she thought. “Thank God that, at least, 1 am spared the 
guilt of further concealment!” 

She took the light with a steady hand, and walked so firmly up- 
stairs, that the servant stared after her in astonishment, and thought 
her pallor and wild looks on entering must, after all, have arisen 
from some accidental faintness. She went straight along to the 
library, never stopping for a moment on her way, then opened the 
door, still without faltering, and in perfect silence. 

Mortimer was seated at the table by a lighted lamp; and before 
him, as Marguerite’s forebodings told her, lay her open diary, her 
papers, Philip’s letters, dried flowers that he had given her years be- 
fore at Kersaint — all the hoarded records of her love. 

Fora moment neither spoke: then Marguerite walked close up 
before him, her large, dark eyes unnaturally dilated, her hands 
clasped tightly together upon her bosom. 


362 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


“Madame! yon here?’' She did not attempt to speak. “You 
have returned then to my house — to your Tiome” with bitter empha- 
sis on the word. “ Has your lover failed in his appointment, 
though you were true? or is it convenient that I should be honored 
with your presence for one night more?” 

Still she never answered, only her lips parted a little; but there 
was no sound. 

“ Speak!” he thundered, rising from his seat. “ I command you 
to speak — the time is over for any more of your cursed innocence.” 

“ I do not pretend to be innocent,” she replied, very low. 

“ No. With such evidence as this,” pointing to the table, “ even 
your hypocrisy is confounded, although it is the blackest that ever 
a woman’s blasted beauty covered since the world began. Some 
women go to perdition after years of marriage — that is bad enough! 
but you have never been pure — you were corrupt in 3"our child- 
hood.” 

“Sir!” raising her clasped hands toward him, “ do not speak to 
me so. Kill me, but do not say that I was guilty when you mar- 
ried me.” 

“ Oh, kill you, madame! You may spare me those theatrical ex- 
pressions. Keep them against the time your poet lover deserts you, 
they may tell upon him! Not guilty, you say, when I married you? 
then what do all these letters mean— these entries in your own hand- 
writing?” 

“ A girlish love, sir — not guilt.” 

“ Girlish love for a married man? — girlish love still, I suppose? 

only that he is free, you married. But you forget by ! ay, and 

your paramour, too, that there is another in the case now— that you 
have a husband implicated in your dishonor, and one that is no fool 
to look on, and smile at his own shame, as some in your fashionable 
world do! Oh! the fool that I have been already,” he went on 
passionately, “to think that at your age, and with your face, you 
were going into the world innocently. Fool to believe all your own 
accounts that you amused me with, as a cover to jour intrigues. 
By Heaven! I believe that this is not the only one; and that your 
cousin Gaston came in for a share of your girlish love.” 

“No, no, sir,” she cried vehemently; “ guilty though I am, do 
not accuse me of such infamy as that! You do not — you can not 
believe that I am so utterly lost?” looking steadily at him. 

He moved his position uneasily, and turned away his head, as 
though afraid to look down into that truthful face that had already 
deceived him. 


PHILIP EARKSCLTPPE. 


363 


Well, I believe you!” he answered, after a minute. '*One is 
sufficient. And such love as you have borne your first lover was 
not likely to be shared, I own. How proud I have been of you, 
Marguerite!” he went on more softly — ‘‘how I have boasted that 
my wife was above even the shadow of reproach! — how 1 have 
studied every wish, every thought of yours — ” 

A sudden sob choked his words; and even more touched at his 
gentleness than at his angry words of reproach, Marguerite sunk 
upon her knees. 

“Oh, forgive me!” she cried. “I acknowledge my sin — my 
utter unworthiness — my ingratitude; but say that you forgive me! 
Do not let your last words to me be curses!” 

“ My last words!” he echoed, scornfully, all the momentary weak- 
ness over. “ My last before you join Philip Earnscliffe, I con- 
clude. Ho, madame, they shall not be curses. I have forbearance 
enough for that, and you will be sufficiently cursed in your own 
after-life. Eise up, pray, and leave me. I am in no humor for 
scenes now. I will not disgrace you before the servants by telling 
you to quit the roof you have dishonored at once — but never let me 
see your face again. ’ ’ 

She rose — she turned, and without a word, she tried to move 
toward the door; but strange lurid lights flashed before her eyes, an 
intolerable pain was about her heart, and her limbs refused to help 
her. 

“ I — am— ill,” she said faintly, leaning heavily against the wall. 

But Mortimer’s heart was steeled. He believed her far guiltier 
than she was, and thought it all acting. 

“Leave me, madame!” he repeated, fiercely. “Do you hear 
me? Leave my presence!” Still she never moved; only her head 
sunk down, her hands clasped more convulsively for support. 

‘ ‘ Then as you refuse to do so, I will go myself. I will remain no 
longer in the same room with the woman I have called my wife, 
until I knew that she was — ” 

The cruel word had no sooner escaped him, in his passion, than 
he wished it recalled. To his last hour Mortimer will never forget 
the wild scream that burst from Marguerite’s lips — the expression of 
her face as she turned it full round to his. Both will haunt him, 
as I am told the mute anguish of a stricken deer has, years after- 
ward, haunted the memory of him who smote her. 

“Hot to me!” she cried, staggering forward a few weak steps. 
“ Say it was not to me! — not to your little Marguerite — ” 

She threw her arms forward, as though once again to clasp him, 


3G4 


PHILIP EARHSCLIPFE. 


then sunk, like a thing of stone, at his feet. Mortimer believed that 
she had fainted, and raised her instantly; but as he did so, a crim- 
son torrent broke from her mouth, dabbling her neck, hei dress, 
her flowers, with the dark tide of. death. In that moment of fear- 
ful excitement the vague dread of her whole life was realized. She 
had ruptured a blood-vessel. 

Still she strove to look up at her husband, and her lips moved 
inarticulately, as though asking him to recall liis last words. 

“ Forgive me!” she said at length, with an almost superhuman 
effort, while the blood literally poured from her mouth as slie 
spoke. 

“ I was not so guilty; and tell Philip— Philip — ” 

But a fllm gathered over the upturned eyes — a sudden spasm con- 
tracted the features— and so, while she yet uttered his name, she 
expired. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

When Philip returned home to his hotel from Mrs. Lorrimer’s 
fete, he did not attempt to rest; but remained up the whole night, 
writing letters to his uncle, to Neville, and a few other friends, tell- 
ing them of his sudden departure from England. He made all his 
business arrangements — wrote to his banker for letters of credit — to 
some of his political supporters, saying for the present he had 

abandoned his intention of standing for L ; and all this with a 

strange calmness at which he himself was astonished. Although 
he knew that Marguerite’s promise once given, she would never fail 
him, he could not realize the truth that she was to be actually his — 
actually leave England with him. From the first it had been so 
completely a part of their love to look upon it as hopeless, and for 
him to consider Marguerite as the type of all purity and innocence, 
that, even amidst the very preparation for their flight, his mind re- 
fused to see the evidence of their union and her guilt. When morn- 
ing came he could only swallow a cup of coffee, and afterward pace 
up and down the room, waiting impatiently for eleven o’clock. At 
that hour he proposed going down to Wimbledon, finally to arrange 
with Marguerite for meeting her in town, toward evening, in time 
to reach Dover for the night mail. But an unusual tremor was 
upon him. His strong nerves started at the slightest sound. Every 
footstep in the passage he fancied was approaching him with some 
message, some ill tidings from Marguerite; and, at length, unable to 
support this kind of uneasy suspense any longer, he hastily changed 


PHILIP EAKHSCLIPPE. 


3G5 


his dress, and ordered his horse, resolving to linger on the road, and 
so get rid of the lagging hour and a half which yet remained. 

When he reached Wimbledon it was only half past ten. ‘‘No 
matter,” he thought; “ she will be alone by this time, and the inter- 
view is better over, for both of us. My poor Marguerite! I know 
well the feverish uncertainty she must suffer. It will be soon fin- 
ished now.” 

He left his horse at the hotel, and walked on toward Mortimer’s 
house: the gates stood open, and he entered without speaking to 
any one. The gardener’s children were not playing, as usual, in 
the lodge garden: no servants were about; there seemed an unusual 
gloom about the whole place, or it appeared so to Philip’s excited 
fancy; and he walked on hurriedly to the house, and knocked. Mar- 
guerite’s little page came to the door, with pale, horror-struck face, 
and eyes swollen with crying. 

“ Is Mrs. Mortimer at home?” 

“ Oh, sir! — my mistress — have you not heard?” 

“Heard what?” exclaimed Philip, seizing the child’s arm so 
suddenly that it deprived him of all his remaining fortitude, and 
instead of replying, he burst into tears. Just then a stealthy step 
approached from the other side of the hall, and the butler’s solemn 
face appeared. 

“Mr. Earnscliffe — sir,” not speaking above his breath, “my 
master has given orders that you should be admitted.” 

“ And Mrs. Mortimer?” asked Philip, eagerly. 

The man shook his head. “ If you will follow me, sir,” he re- 
plied, “ my master will tell you himself.” 

Philip felt that something of importance had taken place; either 
an explanation had occurred between the husband and wife, or Mar- 
guerite had already quitted her home; no glimmering of the truth, 
however, crossed his mind. He was ushered into the dining-room, 
and waited alone for about ten minutes in all the misery of sus- 
pense, and while each moment seemed to him an hour. At length 
Mortimer entered. For a second Earnscliffe did not recognize him. 
In one night his appearance had altered from strong middle life into 
decrepit old age; his face haggard and pale, his step uncertain, his 
gait drooping. 

Earnscliffe advanced to salute him. 

“ Sir — do you offer me your hand?” 

The hollow tone made Philip actually start back; he felt that 
Mortimer knew everything. 

“ I should not have come — ” 


36(3 


PHILIP EARKSCLIFPE. 


Had you known all! No — probably not. There is no attraction 
for you now, Mr. Earnscliffe! You have finished your work well.’^ 

Great God*! sir, tell me — how is Marguerite? Is she here?” 

Ay, she is in my house still. You will be content to leave her 
with me now, I suspect.” 

I can bear this no lofiger!” cried Philip, vehemently. “ If you 
will not tell me how Marguerite is, I will find her— see her myself.” 
And he approached the door. 

“Will you so?” Mortimer answered. “ Then let me take you to 
her chamber. I am not a jealous husband, you perceive, Mr. 
Earnscliffe; although I am aware of your attachment, I conduct 
you to your love myself!” And he motioned to Philip to follow 
him. 

“The old man is mad, ” thought Earnscliffe. “He has discov- 
ered all, and is doting in his jealous rage.” 

But he shuddered with a vague foreboding of ill, as he followed 
Mortimer s tottering steps up the staircase. When they came to the 
library Mortimer trembled visibly and attempted to pass on quicker; 
and Marguerite’s little spaniel, who was silently following them, 
shrunk fearfully away. Philip saw all this with that quick percep- 
tion to external things which the mind frequently experiences under 
the most violent emotion; and when at last they reached Marguerite’s 
sleeping-room, and Mortimer noiselessly turned the handle of the 
door, the cold dews stood thick upon his forehead. 

“ Tell me, in pity tell me,” he whispered, “ is Marguerite there ?” 

“ Oh, go in!” returned Mortimer. “ So gay a gallant surely 
fears nothing. Go in, sir! I have brought you to your love!” 

And, with a powerful effort, Earnscliffe forced himself to enter 
the room that already his tortured sense told him was one of death. 

Upon the bed dressed in white, lay Marguerite, her face uncov- 
ered. A sweet, loving expression was yet upon her features; her 
hands lay in an attitude of natural repose upon her breast, and all 
that told of death were one or two gouts of blood upon her night- 
dress, and a faint streak across the parted lips. 

With a burst of agony, before which Mortimer’s own sorrow 
quailed, Earnscliffe flung himself by her side, covered her cold 
hands with kisses, called upon her to awake to him by all the names 
that the fervor of his nature could pour forth. 

“ Oh, it is well for you to recall her, who have been the cause of 
her death!” said Mortimer, in a low, concentrated voice. 

But Philip never heard him; unconscious, even in his presence, 
he continued sobbing with such passionate excess as is rarely wit- 


PHILIP EAEHSCLIFPE. 


367 


nessed in a young, strong man. “ Marguerite, return to me; re- 
member Tiow I have loved you! Marguerite, my child, my own!’' 

At length, jealous of the kisses Philip pressed upon her cold, in- 
sensible hands, Mortimer came round and touched his shoulder. 

Leave, sir!” he whispered. “You have seen all that I intend- 
ed you should. Your place is not here now.” 

Philip sprung to his feet, and turned upon him a face of anguish 
before which Mortimer shrunk back. 

“ This is not my place!” he repeated between his teeth. “Not 
mine! — who have loved her with my very life^before you ever 
knew her — not mine’ — who have been the cause of all her sorrows. 
Leave me with her, sir!” he went on fiercely: “ my place is here — 
I can injure you no more now. No — ” as Mortimer was beginning 
to reply — “ in her presence let there be no unseemly words — after- 
ward I will hear all you have to say: but now I must be with her— 
and alone.” 

After a moment’s irresolution, Mortimer left the room in silence. 
He went down to the dining-room: and, seating himself in his 
arm-chair, wept feebly like a child; and, for an hour longer, Philip 
kept his watch with the dead. During that hour, what tongue can 
tell the dread remorse— the resolves— the meditated atonements of 
Earnscliffe’s heart? They rest between him and Heaven, and his 
future life alone can test their sincerity. At length, pale, but tear- 
less now, he rose, and bent down over her, scanning, for the last 
time, her waxen features, as though to imprint each line upon his 
memory forever! then he stooped and kissed her lips. That long, 
lingering kiss which poor humanity gives to the clay which once 
held its idol before yielding it up forevermore! 

******* 

The dining-room door stood open, and Mortimer met him as he 
passed. 

“ Not now!” said Philip, waving him back! “ I will speak to 
you any other time— not now.” 

“ One word, Mr. Earnscliffe — I think I have a right to demand it 
— I have one question to ask!” And struck by the softened tone, 
the wistful expression of the old man’s face, Philip mastered his 
own emotion, and entered the room. Mortimer closed the door, 
and turned round to Earnscliffe, a strange look of dawning remorse 
and doubt contracting his features, as though with some sharp 
bodily pain.” 

“ You are right,” he began, huskily, “ this is no time for you— 


368 


PHILIP EARHSCLIFFE. 


and me— to speak together. By the dead body of her you have 
quitted— by your own honor— was she pure still?” 

She was spotless as the very light of heaven!” returned Earns- 
cliffe, solemnly. “Whatever were my own guilty hopes for the 
future, I swear to you that Marguerite was pure — ” 

“ Then I was her murderer!” Mortimer interrupted, hoarsely. 
“ Leave me, sir. You are the less guilty of the two.” 


CHAPTER LIV. 

Margueritf/s sudden death and the circumstances attending it 
furnished conversation until the close of the season. Actually for 
four consecutive weeks one subject continued to be spoken of in the 
great world with unflagging interest! 

The exact circumstances of the last night of Marguerite’s life were 
never actually known. All Mortimer could be brought to say was, 
that his wife returned home flushed and overexcited from Mrs. 
Lorrimer’s fete ; that she complained of illness; and, while they 
were speaking together, was seized with the attack from which she 
never rallied. 

Meanwhile, the confidential talk of servants gained far more ground 
than the asseverations of the husband. Mr. Grimes had heard his 
master’s voice speaking in loud, angry tones before the bell rang 
which summoned him to the fearful scene of death in the library. 
Mademoiselle Eulalie had been bold enough to take a glance at a 
few of the papers on the table, which, in those first moments of ter- 
ror, Mortimer had taken no heed of. Mademoiselle Eulalie saw that 
they were in the same handwriting as the ones her mistress had so 
constantly received — saw that they were signed “ Philip Earns- 
cliffe.” 

And all this, and much more of a like nature, was related to the 
countless servants who came “ to inquire” for Mortimer. And 
soon in eveiy club and coterie it was told, “ that Earnscliffe had 
long been Mrs. Mortimer’s lover — ^years ago, even before she was 
married; but that the husband, as usual, was blinded longer than 
any one else; that at the Richmond Mrs. Mortimer had besought 
Earnscliife to take her with him from England: that he had re- 
turned home half distracted; Mortimer, in the meantime, had broken 
open her desk, and found all Earnscliffe’s letters. Fearful explana- 
tions had ensued, ending ” (in this, at least, they could weave no 


PHILIP EARl!lSCLIFPE. 369 

falsehood) “ with "Mrs. Mortimer’s rupturing a blood-vessel of the 
heart, and her death.” 

Even Georgy found herself quite of importance, from knowing so 
many details of the story, flaunted from house to house in the 
French bonnet and dress* Marguerite had given her — the relationship 
was too distant to require mourning — eager to tell all she knew, and 
say: “How very melancholy it was! but she must confess she 
always thought Mrs. Mortimer was completely French in her notions 
of morality, and much too fond of admiration for a married 
woman!” 

And thus, while those who had so long courted and fluttered 
round Marguerite were casting each an additional stone at her black- 
ened memory, she — the best and purest among them all — was car- 
ried to her grave — a new grave in some new cemetery; and laid 
there, with only two old men for mourners — Danby and her hus- 
band. 

Only two mourners at her funeral! But when the summer twi- 
light was deepening, a stranger bribed the keeper of the gates that 
evening to open them for him to enter. And throughout the flrst 
dark night that Marguerite was in her grave, this stranger kept 
watch, kneeling upon the new-laid turf in such tearless, rigid 
anguish as can smite the heart but once in a lifetime, then leaves it 
blank and dead forever. 

******* 

When Neville called upon Earnscliffe the following day, he start- 
ed at seeing his face. Every remaining look of youth was gone; 
around his eyes was a deep hollow shade; and already many a silver 
line streaked his dark hair. 

“ You have suffered, Earnscliffe! You are fearfully changed!” 

“I have,” replied Philip, without looking up or extending his 
hand to him. “ I have gone through all the bitterness of remorse 
that any man could do, and yet live.” 

******* 

Time has passed on, and Earnscliffe has again interests in life; 
deeper, graver interests than any of those which engrossed him in 
his youth. All desire for personal distinction is gone; and if in his 
fresh political career he has won success, it was unsought for. He 
has Arm convictions now upon the points where he once so wavered 
■ — a stronger sense than formerly of his own responsibility; and in 
strenuously supporting the cause of social reform, in devoting him- 
self wholly to the welfare of others, his high powers of mind have 
found at length a genuine and lasting scope for action. 


370 


PHILIP EABKSCLIFPE. 


Neville is, as of old, his greatest, his only friend (for political 
partisanship, however warm, can never constitute friendship to a 
nature like Philip’s), and he always looks forward with relief to 
the close of each session, and the lonely autumn which he and the 
painter shall spend together in Scotland; for Neville is still the 
same untiring student as ever; and, celebrated though he has be- 
come, works from Nature with all the fresh zest that he had at 
eighteen. 

But Philip has never written since Marguerite’s death. Either he 
feels no more inspiration, or the constant excitement and turmoil of 
political life leave him no spare time for literature. He rarely goes 
into the world — never into the society where he once so shone, and 
whose leaders would still receive him with open arms, did he choose 
to return to their small distinctions and applause. 

Is Earnscliffe happy? 

Oh, reader! is there not some shadow across your own memory — 
some grave over which no flower can ever grow, to answer that 
question? 


THE END. 


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494 A Blaiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
bara 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories 

541 “ As It Fell Upon a Day.” 

?^3 Lady Branksmere 

Alexander Dumas’s Works. 

55 The Three Guardsmen 

75 Twenty Years After 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 

Monte-Cristo ” 

262 The Count of Blonte-Cristo. 

Part I 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II 

717 Beau Tancrede; or. The Mar- 
riage Verdict 

George Eliot’s Works. 

3 The Mill on the Floss 

36 Adam Bede 

31 Middlemarch. 1st half 

31 Middlemarch. 2d half 

34 Daniel Deronda. 1st half. . 

34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half — 

42 Romola 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 

Raveloe 

728 Janet’s Repentance.... li 


gggggggg 8 8 S 3 88 SS3 3 83 33 33333 3 3333 8388388 8 8 888 


THE SEASIDE LlDUAUr. -Pocket Edition, 


B. Ij. Farjeoii’s Works. 


179 Little Make-Believe 10 

573 Love’s Harvest 20 

607 Self-Doomed 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget 20 

657 Christmas Angel 10 

G. Mauville Feun’s Works. 

193 The Rosery Folk 10 

558 Poverty Corner 20 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 20 

609 The Dark House 10 

Octave Feuillet’s Works. 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man 10 

386 Led 4stray; or, “La Petite 
Comtesse ’’ 10 

'Mrs. Forrester’s Works. 

80 June 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales 10 

715 I Have Lived and Loved 20 

721 Dolores 20 

724 My Lord and My Lady 20 

726 My Hero 20 

727 Fair Women 20 

729 Mignon 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades 20 

734 Viva 20 

736 Roy and Viola 20 

740 Rhoua 20 

744 Diana Carew; or, For a Wom- 
an’s Sake 20 


Arthur Griflitlis’s Works. 

614 No. 99... 10 

680 Fast and Loose 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

690 Far From the Maddiny: Crowd. 20 
John B. Harwood’s Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair 20 

358 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 20 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished 20 

Tighe Hopkins’s Works. 

509 Nell Haffenden 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty 20 

Works by the Author of “Judith 
Wynne.” 

332 Judith Wynne 20 

506 Lady Lovelace 20 

William H, G. Kingston’s Works. 
117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 
133 Peter the Whaler 10 


Jessie Fothergill’s Works. 


314 Peril 20 

672 Healey 20 

R. E. Francillon’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

819 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables 10 

360 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior.. 10 
656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 
Francillon and Wm. Senior.. 10 

Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 20 

33 The Clique of Gold 10 

38 The Widow Lerouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

144 Promises of Marriage 10 

Charles Gibbon’s Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

317 By Mead and Stream 20 

Miss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

555 Cara Roma 20 


Charles Lever’s Works. 

191 Harry Lorrequer 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. First half 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. Second half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Sec- 
ond half 20 

Mary Linskill’s Works. 

473 A Lost Son 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea 20 

Samuel Lover’s Works. 

663 Handy Andy 20 

664 Rory O’More 20 

Sir E. Bulwer Lytt oil’s Works. 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 

83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 
ond half 20 

162 Eugene Aram 20 

164 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice ; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers ”) 20 
720 Paul Clifford 20 


TBE SEASIDE TABUAnY.— Docket Edition. 


Miss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

655 Cara Roma 20 

Arthur Griffiths’s Works. 

614 No. 99 10 

680 Fast and Loose 20 

H. Rider Haggard’s Works. 

432 The Witch’s Head 20 

753 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 20 
791 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

John B, Harwood’s Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair 20 

358 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

05 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 20 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished 20 

Mrs. Cashel-Hoey’s Works. 

313 The Lover’s Creed 20 

802 A Stern Chase 20 

Tighe Hopkins’s Works. 

509 Nell Haffenden 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty 20 


Wynne.” 

332 Judith Wynne 20 

506 Lady Lovelace 20 

William H. G. Kingston’s Works. 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 

133 Peter the Whaler 10 

701 Will Weatherhelm 20 

76;j The Midshipman, Marmaduke 

Merry 20 

Charles Lever’s Works. 

191 Harry Lorrequer.o 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. First half 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. Second half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half 20 

843 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Sec- 
ond half 20 


Mary Liiiskill’s Works. 

473 A Lost Son 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 
Northern Sea. 20 

Samuel Lover’s Works. 

663 Handy Andy 20 

664 Rory O’More 20 


Sir E. Bulwer Lytton’s Works. 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii 

83 A Strange Story 

90 Ernest Maltravers 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 
ond half 

162 Eugene Aram 

164 Leila ; or, The Siege of Grenada 
650 Alice ; or. The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers ”) 
720 Paul Clifford 


George Macdonald’s Works* 

282 Donal Grant 

325 The Portent 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine 


Florence Marryat’s Works. 
159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other 

Stories 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses.... 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 

449 Peeress and Player 

689 The Heir Presumptive 

Captain Marryat’s Works. 

88 The Privateersman 

272 The Little Savage 

Helen B. Mathers’s Works. 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 

438 Found Out 

535 Murder or Manslaughter? 

673 Story of a Sin 

713 “ Clierry Ripe ” 

795 Sam’s Sweetheart 

798 The Fashion of this World 

799 My Lady Green Sleeves 

Justin McCarthy’s Works. 


121 Maid of Athens 20 

602 Camiola 20 

685 England Under Gladstone. 

1880—1885 20 


747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P.. 10 
779 Doom 1 An Atlantic Episode. .. 10 


85888SS85 Sg S S 8S 5S 88 S88 8 888 


THE SEASIDE LIBRADY .---Docket Edition. 


Mrs* Alex* McVeigh Miller’s 
Works. 

2(37 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 


Conspiracy 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Miser’s Treasure 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline 

Kodney’s Secret 20 

Jean Middlemas’s Works* 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 20 

639 Silvermead 20 

Alan Muir’s Works* 

172 “Golden Girls” 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Miilock’s Works, 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

215 Miss Tommy, and In a Hoiue- 

Boat 10 

808 King Arthur. Not a Love Story 20 


357 John 

370 Lucy Crofton 

371 Margaret Maitland 
377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside 

410 Old Lady Mary 

527 The Davs of My Life 

528 At His Gates 

568 The Perpetual Curate 

569 Harry Muir 

603 Agnes. 1st half 

603 Agnes. 2d half 

604 Innocent. 1st half 

604 Innocent. 2d half 

605 Ombra 

645 Oliver’s Bride 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
trait 

687 A Country Gentleman 

703 A House Divided Against Itself 
710 The Greatest Heiress in England 


“ Ouida’s ” Works. 


David Christie Murray’s Works* 


58 By the Gate of the Sea 10 

195 “The Way of the World”...,.. 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular 20 

691 Valentine Strange 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

Deuce 20 

698 A Life’s Atonement .20 

737 Aunt Rachel 10 


Works by the author of “ My 
Ducats and My Daughter*” 

876 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter. .. 20 


f W* E. Norris’s Works* 

184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

355 That Terrible Man 10 

600 Adrian Vidal ...... 1 20 

Laurence Oliphant’s Works. 

47 Altiora Peto 20 

537 Piccadilly 10 

Mrs. Oliphant’s Works* 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

321 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
heritance 10 

837 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgra 5 % 
including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 20 

346 Madam 20 

351 The House on the Moor. ...... 20 


4 Under Two Flags 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras.. 

116 Moths 

128 Afternoon'ahd Other Sketches. 

226 Friendship 

228 Princess Napraxine 

238 Pascarel 

239 Signa 

433 A Rainy June 

639 Othmar 

671 Don Gesualdo 

672 In Maremma. First half 

672 In Maremma. Second half 


James Payu’s Works* 

48 Thicker Than Water 

186 The Canon’s Ward 

343 The Talk of the Town 

577 In Peril and Privation 

589 The Luck of the Darrells. . . 


Miss Jane Porter’s Works. 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. 1st half.. 
660 The Scottish Chiefs. 2d half.. 


696 Thadde us of Warsaw 

Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia 20 

611 Babylon 20 

Mrs. Campbell Praed’s Works* 

428 Zero : A Story of Monte-Carlo . 1() 
477 Affinities 10 

Eleanor C* Price’s Works* 

173 The Foreigners 20 

331 Gerald 2# 




THE 8EA81DE L1BBAB7.- Pocket Edition. 


diaries Readers Works. 


46 Very Hard Cash 90 

98 A Woman-Hater 20 

206 Tiie Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events 10 

213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy... 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret 10 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter-of -Fact Ro- 
mance 20 

Mrs. J. H. Riddell’s Works. 

71 A Struggle for Fame 20 

593 Berna Boyle. 20 

“Rita’s” Works. 

252 A Sinless Secret 10 

446 Dame Durden 20 

598 “ Corinua.” A Study 10 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 


F. W. Robinson’s Works. 

157 Milly’sHero 20 

217 The Man She Cared For 20 

261 A Fair Maid 20 

455 Lazarus in London 20 

590 The Courting of Mary Smith. . . 20 

W. Clark Russell’s Works. 

85 A Sea Queen 20 

109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. . 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 

Stories 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. 1st half 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. 2d half 20 

Sir Walter Scott’s Woi’ks. 

28 Ivanhoe 20 

901 The Monastery 20 

5202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

Monastery ”) 20 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
gend of Montrose 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor 520 

SOS The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine’s Day 20 

418 St. Rouaii’s WeU 20 


463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

Eighteenth Century 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
and Other Stories 10 

William Sime’s Works. 

429 Boulderstone ; or, New Men and 

Old Populations 10 

580 The Red Route 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer 10 

649 Cradle and Spade 20 

Hawley Smart’s Works. 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance 20 

367 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down 10 

Frank E. Smedley’s Works. 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 

Pupil 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life 20 » 

T. W. Speight’s Works. 

150 For Himself Alone 10 

653 A Barren Title 10 

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Works. 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde 10 

704 Prince Otto 10 

Julian Sturgis’s Works. 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

694 John Maidment 20 


Eugene Sue’s Works. 

270 The Wandering Jew. Parti... 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part H. . ^ 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part 1. 20 
271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 20 


George Temple’s Works. 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P 10 

642 Britta 10 

William M. Thackeray’s Works. 

27 Vanity P’air 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 20 

464 The Newcomes. Parti 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

531 The Prime Minister (1st half).. 20 
531 The Prime Minister (2d half).. 20 
670 The Rose and the Ring. Illus- 
trated 10 

Annie Thomas’s Works. 

141 She Loved Him! 10 

142 Jenifer 20 

565 No Medium 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBBABT.— Docket Edition. 


\ 

Antbouy Trollope’s Works, 


32 The Land Leaguers 20 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

147 Rachel Ray 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love 10 

531 The Prime Minister. 1st half.. 20 
531 The Prime Minister. 2d half. . . 20 

621 The Warden 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. . . 10 
667 The Golden Inon of Granpere. . 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. 1st half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. 2d half 20 

775 The Three Clerks. 20 


Margaret Veley’s Works, 

298 Mitchelhurst Place 10 

586 “ For Percival ” 20 


Jules Verne’s Works. 


Works by the author of “ What’s 
His Offence ?” 

637 What’s His Olfence? 

780 Rare Pale Margaret 

784 The Two Miss Flemings 

Whyte-Melville’s Works 

409 Roy’s Wife 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar 

f«ljn Strange Winter’s Works 
492 Mignon ; or, Booties’ Baby. Il- 
lustrated 

600 Houp-La, Illustrated 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons 

688 A Man of Honor. Illustrated . . 

746 Cav.alry Life ; or, Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out. . 


87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 20 
368 The Southern Star ; or, the Dia- 
mond Land 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire 10 

678 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part 1 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part II 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Partin 10 

659 The Waif of the “ Cynthia ”... 20 
751 Great Voyages and (>reat Navi- 
gators. First half 20 

751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Second half 20 

li. B. Walford’s Works. 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother 10 

.256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 20 

258 Cousins 20 

658 The History of a Week 10 

F. Warden’s Works, 

192 At the World’s Mercy 10 

248 The House on the Marsh 10 

286 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand 20 

482 A Vagrant Wife 20 

556 A Prince of Darkness 20 

William Ware’s Works. 

709 Zenobia; or, The Fall of Pal- 
myra. 1st half 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
myra. 2d half 20 

760 Aurelian; or, Rome in the Thu*d 
Centuiy 20 


E. Werner’s Works. 

227 Raymond’s Atonement 20 

&40 At a High Price 20 


Mrs, Henry Wood’s Works, 

8 East Lynne 

255 The Mystery 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters 

508 The Unholy Wish 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 
and Other Tales 

Charlotte M. Yonge’s Works, 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices 

275 The Three Brides 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 
neering 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield — 
640 Nuttie’s Father 

665 The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. . 

666 My Young Alcides: A Faded 

Photograph 

739 The Caged Lion 

7'42 Love and Life 

783 Chantry House 

790 The Chaplet of Pearls ; or. The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 


First half 20 

790 The Chaplet of Pearls ; or. The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 

Second half 20 

800 Hopes and Fears; or, Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 

First half , 2( 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Second half 2( 

Miscellaneous. 

53 The Story of Ida. Francesca. . 10 
61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

son 10 

99 Barbara’s History. Amelja B. 
Edwards. 2C 


gggg gggs SS S S S SSBB 8 SS S5 * 8 8* 888 


TEE ^EASibE LlBBAItY.—Poclcet Edition, 


Miscellaiieoiis— Continued. 
103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell.. 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

J. H. Shorthouse. 

112 The Waters of Marah. John 

Hill 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. M. G. 

Wightwick 

114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

Eiloart 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

Adolphus Trollope 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
Rugby. Thomas Hughes. . . . 
122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 

127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. Q. Blath- 

erwick 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 

158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 
leod, D.D 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

ler 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 

163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
rell 

170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

pus 

174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

Queen Victoria 

182 The Millionaire 

185 Dita. Lady Margaret Ma jendie 
187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 

Bremer 

198 A Husband’s Story 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 
O’Rell 

218 Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James. . 

219 Lady Clare : or, The Master of 

the Forges. Georges Ohnet 
242 The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 
253 The Amazon. Carl Vosmaer. . 
257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
geant 

266 The Water-Babies. Rev. Chas. 

Kingsley 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 
den 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on ” 


10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

20 

30 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 


311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

H. Dana, Jr 20 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmann-Chat- 
rian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. Margaret Lee 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch 20 

340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade. 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

Laura Jean Libbey 20 

347 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. George 

Meredith 10 

352 At Any Cost. Edward Garrett. 10 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. John Brougham ^ 

355 The Princess Dagomar of Po- 

land. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 

356 A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 

365 George Christy ; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. 

The Man of Death. Capt. L. 

C. Carleton 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. Frances 

Elliot -r. 10 

382 Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

Keeling 10 

383 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

ton A’id6 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
lotte French 20 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

399 Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 
426 


430 

435 

436 

441 

442 

443 
457 

10 
(10). 


Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood. . . 20 
Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ” 10 

Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

Stella. Fanny Lewald 20 

A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 
Ranthorpe. George Henry 

Lewes 20 

The Bachelor of the Albany. . . 10 
The Russians at the Gates of 
Herat. CUiarles Marvin 10 


THE SEASIDE LlBEAET.-PocM Edition, 


45S A Week of Passion; or, The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 

468 Tii^ Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Girl. Charlotte 

M. Stanley 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers 

479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 
483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 
author of “ A Golden Bar ”. . . 
485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

Cobban 

491 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

Malet 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 
Robinson 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. John 

Coleman 

505 The Society of London. Count 

Paul Vasili 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

and Lord ” 

513 The Waters of Hercules 

518 The Hidden Sin 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
ces Poynter 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 

533 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh 

536 Dissolving Views. Mrs. Andrew 

Lang 

545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ” 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel . . 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. Alice Co- 
rny ns Carr 

575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 
Mayne Reid 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Allessandro Manzoni 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

J. H. Needed 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith . . 

584 Mixed Motives 

699 Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Dr. Edith Romney ” 

624 Primus in Indis. M. J. Colqu- 

houn 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “My Lady’s Folly ” 

094 The Unforeseen. Alice O’Han- 
lon 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell. Stuart C. 
Cumberland 

643 The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey 

Crayon, Gent. Washington 
Irving 

644 A Girton Girl. Mrs. Annie Ed- 

wards 

652 The Lady with the Rubies. E. 

Marlitt 

654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 
Mrs. Molesworth 


The Mystery of Allan Grale. 

Isabella Fy vie Mayo 20 

Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

The Philosophy of Whist. 

William Pole 20 

Mrs. Dymond. Miss Thackeray 20 
A Singer’s Story. May Laflfan. 10 
The Bachelor Vicar of New- 
forth. Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe. 20 

Last Days at Apswich 10 

The Mikado, and Other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan 20 

The Woman I Loved, and the 
Woman Who Loved Me. Isa 
Blagden 10 

A Crimson Stain. Annie Brad- 
shaw 10 

For Maimie’s Sake. Grant 

Allen 20 

Unfairly Won. Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

Lord Byron 10 

Mauleverer’s Millions. T. We- 

myss Reid 20 

My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

Silvio Pellico 10 

The Autobiography of Benja- 
min Franklin 10 

The Bayou Bride, Mrs. Mary E. 

Br5'an 26 

Until the Day Breaks. Emily 

Spender 20 

In the Golden Days. Edna 

Lyall 20 

Hurrish: A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. 
Mabel Collins 20 


An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

Juliana Horatia Ewing 10 

How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a Graduate in the 

University of Matrimony 20 

Margery Daw 20 

The Strange Adventures of Cap- 
tain Dangerous. A Narrative 
in Plain English. Attempted 

by George Augustus Sala 20 

Love’s Martyr. Laurence Alma 

Tadema 10 

In Shallow Waters. Annie Ar- 

mitt 20 

No. XIH; or, The Story of the 
Lost Vestal. Emma Mar- 
shall 10 

The Castle of Otranto. Hor- 
ace Walpole . 10 


662 

668 

20 

669 

675 

on 

10 f4 

10 

705 

20 

20 706 

10 712 

10 718 

20 723 

20 

20 725 

20 730 

10 781 

10 735 

10 

738 

10 

20 

20 

20 760 

W 750 

10 752 

20 754 

10 

20 

10 

757 

20 759 

20 766 

20 

770 

10 


THE SEASIDE TABIlABY.--PocM EdiUon, 


Misceiraneoiis— Continued. 

773 Tlie Mark of Cain. Andrew 

Lang 10 

774 The Life and Travels of Blungo 

Park 10 

77C P6re Goriot. Honore De Bal- 
zac 20 

777 The Voyages and Travels of 

of Sir John Maundeville, Kt.. 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. the au- 

thor of “My Marriage ” 20 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By au- 

thor of “Petite’s Romance”. 20 

787 Court Roj^al. S. Baring-Gould 20 


793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 


Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Grey, By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. Second half. .. 30 
801 She Stoops to Conquer, and 
The Good-Natured Man. Oli- 
ver Goldsmith 10 

803 Major Frank. A. L. G. Bos- 
boom-Tonssaint 20 


807 If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 
809 Witness My Hand. By author 
of “ Lady Gwendolen’s Tryst ” 10 


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LATEST ISSUES: 


NO. PRICK. 

669 Pole on Whist 20 

798 The Fashion of this World. By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

799 My Lady Green Sleeves. By 

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800 Hopes and Fears; or, Scenes 

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801 She Stoops to Conquer, and The 

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802 A Stern Chase. Mrs.Cashel-Hoey 20 

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805 The Freres. By Mrs. Alexan- 

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806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 

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806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 

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807 If Love be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 

808 King Arthur. Not a Love Story. 

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809 Witness My Hand. By the au- 

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810 The Secret of Her Life. By Ed- 

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816 Rogues and Vagabonds. By 

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817 Stabbed in the Dark. By Mrs. 

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818 Pluck. By John Strange Winter 10 

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820 Doris’s Fortune. By Florence 

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827 Effie Ogilvie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

828 The Prettiest Woman in War- 

saw. By Mabel Collins 20 

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830 Bound by a Spell. By Hugh 

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832 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis 

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833 Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

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835 Vivian the Beauty. By Mrs. 

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838 Ought We to Visit Her? By 

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839 Leah: A Woman of Fashion. 

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840 One Thing Needful; or. The 

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841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

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842 A Blue-Stocking. By Mrs An- 

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843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

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844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe; or. The 

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847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 

848 My Friend Jim. ByW.E. Norris 10 

849 A Wicked Girl. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

850 A Playwright’s Daughter. By 

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851 The Cry of Blood. By F. Du 

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851 The Cry of Blood. By F. Du 

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852 Under Five Lakes ; or, The 

Cruise of the “Destroyer.” 

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MUNRO’S PUBLlCATIONa 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

r ORDINARY EDITION. 


GCORG£ JRUNROy Munro’s publi^hinfir Honse^ 


The following works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary EdUion^, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher.^ Parties ordering by mail will please 
order by numbers. ^ 

I 

MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 30 

36 The Wooing O’t ’ 20 

43 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

870 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1984 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid * 10 

WILLIAM BLACK^S WORKS. 

18 A Princess of Thule 20 

38 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. iO 

61 Kilraeav 10 


jTJSfer SSASTbi! LI^ilAhT. —OrdinoA^ Edition. 

— u- ■'■ ■' ■ - ■ ■■ - ' ' 

58 The Monarch of Mincing Lane iO 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) ^ ‘ 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) i. . * . . . S3G 

Si42 The Three Feathers 15 

890 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena, lOi 

417 Macleod of Dare , 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart , 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Komance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

. 1032 That Beautiful Wretch. ^ . 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1284 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRADDON^S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Lovels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Mark liam 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune. 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret. 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance. 20 

287 Leighton Grange - 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 2C 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin. * V' 


TBB SBASTD^ LiBHAnt.— Ordinary Edition. 


481 Vixen... 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

600 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter : 20 

619 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

639 A Strange World 20 

650 Fenton’s Quest..: 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

•734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 26 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

996 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor U> 


THE SEASIDE LIBEAET. — Ordina/ry EdiiUm. 
r" * — ■' 

829 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

j098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande. 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1138 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or. The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina ✓. 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


TME seaside LiBEAnt.^OrMnnry EdUton. 


551 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 ‘a Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore >. 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or. The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. —Or dinary Edition. 


118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

213 Barnaby Rudge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 

359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OP “DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBEAET.— Ordinary Edition. 


SSI The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

1013 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream 10 

1018 Wife in Name Only 20 

1044 Like No Other Love 10 

1060 A Woman’s War 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin....^ 10 

1081 A Bridge of Love 10 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea. 10 

1110 A Rose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring 10 

1127 Love’s Warfare. 20 

1182 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golden Heart 20 

1266 Ingledew House 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or, Under the Lilacs. 10 

1357 The Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 20 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil 20 

1704 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

1761 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms 20 

1844 Fair but False, and The Heiresi^f Arne . . . .‘ 10 

1883 Sunshine and Roses 20 

1906 In Cupid’s Net 10 

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. ’ 

144 The Twin Lieutenants 10 

151 The Russian Gipsy 10 

155 T\\q Co\xv\\ oi {Complete in One Volmne) 20 

160 The Black Tulip 10 

The Queen’s Necklace 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. -Ordinary Edition. 


173 The Chevalier de Maison Rouge. . . 

184 The Countess de Charny 20 

188 Nauou 10 

193 Joseph Balsamo; or, Memoirs of a Physician 30 

194 The Conspirators 10 

198 Isabel of Bavaria 10 

201 Catherine Blum 10 

233 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (small type) 10 

997 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (large type) 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

244 The Three Guardsmen 20 

268 The Forty -five Guardsmen 20 

276 The Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 

278 Six Years Later; or, Taking the Bastile 20 

283 Twenty Years After 20 

298 Captain Paul 10 

306 Three Strong Men 10 

318 Ingenue 10 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

343 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. 1. (small type) 10 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol I. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

344 Ascanio 10 

608 The Watchmaker 20 

616 The Two Dianas 20 

622 Andree de Taverney 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne(lst Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (2d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (4th Series) 20 

688 Chicot, the Jester 20 

849 Doctor Basil ius 20 


1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of "‘The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. 1 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of ‘‘The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. II 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. Ill 20 


• » 1 * 



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THE CELEBRATED 


1 





GEAND, SQUARE AUD UPRIGHT PIANOS. 


FIEST PKIZE 

DIPLOMA. 


Centennial Exnibi- 
tion, 1876; Moutr»*al, 
1881 and 1882. 


The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


They are us*- 
in Conservaji!; 
ries. Schools cij: 
Seminaries, oni*. 
count of their jfi 
perior tone ajfi 
unequaled du-' 
bility. ^ 

The SOHMIll 
Piano is a spec’! 
favorite with :|j 
leading musicitl* 
and critics. 

ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPIJEAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14tli Street, N. Y. 


6.000 MILES 


THE BES'R 


005 ’ 




RAILROAD 


THE WORL 


IT TRAVERSES THE MOST DESIRARLE PORTIONS OF 

ILLINOIS, IOWA, NEBRASKA, WISCONSIN, MINNESOT 
DAKOTA AND NORTHERN MICHIGAN. 


THE POPULAR SHORT LINE 


BETWEEN 

CHICAGO, MILWAUKEE, MADISON, ST. PAUL, 

OMAHA, COUNCIL BLUFFS, DENVER, 

PORTLAND, OREGON, 

AND ADD POINTS IN THE WEST AND NORTHWEST. 


MINNEAPOLIS// 
SAN FRANCISC 


PALACE ^ SLEEPING ^ CARS, > PALATIAL < DINING ^ CAli 

AND SUPERB DAY COACHES ON THROUGH TRAINS. 

/ 

Close connections in Union depots with branch and connecting lib* 


ALL AGENTS SELL TICKETS VIA THE NORTH-WESTERN. 

Neir York Office, 409 Broadway. Chleagro Office, 62 Clark St. Denver Office, 8 Windsor Hotel Block. 

Boston Office, 5 State Street. Omaha Office, 1411 Farnam St. San Francisco Office, 2 New Montieomery 

Minneapolis Office, 13 Nicollet House. St. Paul Office, 159 E. Third St. Milwaukee Office, 102 Wisconsin Street. 


R. 3. H A I R,General Passenc-er TT.T.. 








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